This will come as no surprise: the Fiery One has left me again for distant countries. We said our goodbyes this morning over boiled eggs and tea and brave kisses at the door. This time he’s travelling Europe, and he will be gone from me for longer than ever before. Six weeks will pass before he arrives home on Hallowe’en night. Six weeks.
My brain doesn’t even understand that length of time away from him. In terms of most other things, six weeks is completely fathomable. Six weeks is how long it takes to receive something you order by mail. Six weeks is how much time passes between hair cuts. Six weeks is how old kittens are when you take them home to teach them about litter boxes and not eating the plants. This particular six weeks, though, seems endless from this vantage point: the weeks, days, hours, and minutes stretch ahead of me, begging to be filled with activities that will pull me ever closer to the end of my waiting. No matter how productive I am while he is gone, there is always that small seed of waiting ticking off the passing moments, counting down time, poking me in the back of the head. His usual work trips of three weeks, I complain about. I whine and say but it’s too looooooong and I feel like he should come hooooooome, but this time I am just feeling glum, resigned to my semi-solitude.
On the way to the bus this morning following our last goodbye kisses, I worked hard at being stoic, because the right corner of my lips kept trying to start up an emotional quiver and my eyes were getting wet. There was no way that I was going to get on the bus with tears and snot and a shaky-looking face, so tried a trick I have to deal with such situations. I made a list in my head of things that pertain to the issue but don’t allow me to wallow in self pity. Here it is:
How Many Whatevers Will Have Come To Pass Before The Fiery One’s Return:
When I arrived home from work, I checked my messages. I normally forget to do that except for maybe once or twice a week, but when the Fiery One goes away, I check them a couple of times a day just in case I will get to hear his distinctive voice. So, yeah, I checked my messages. I should have waited until tomorrow, because today already sucked due to the Fiery One leaving the continent, and I didn’t need any more craptasticity to add to the suckage. The message I am speaking of was from the vet clinic. Gordon’s ashes are ready to be picked up. My little fluffy, annoying-as-fuck, much loved bunny’s ashes are sitting in a box behind the counter at a vet clinic, and since the Fiery One is not here, it is up to me to put on a brave front and pick them up without spewing salty wetness all over whatever vet student intern is there to greet me.
I seriously didn’t know that he/she was actually dead until that phone message. I had an image of my soft, obnoxious companion in my head, and now it’s turned to ash.
I don’t know why we’re getting Gordon’s ashes. When the vet asked us if we were going to euthanize Gordon and we nodded a collective yes, I just kept up with the nodding when she asked if we wanted his ashes. I was in no position to say no, throw him/her out. At the time, I was not emotionally coherent enough to be able to think ahead to what we were going to do with those ashes. What do you do with bunny ashes? Do we bury them? Do I just leave them in the box they’re coming in and decorate it according to taste? Do I pour them into plaster of paris and mould them into his/her likeness?
If any of you have any ideas for dealing with my sweet little Gordon’s ashes, drop me a line. Or a list to take my mind off this sad errand I have to run.
I don’t have any news or playful links to offer you, because now I’m alone and my rabbit’s dead. I’m not actually that sad, so don’t worry. It’s more like glum or a defensive apathy. What is world news in the face of this? My course of action will now be getting myself down to my local pub and downing a pint or two, hopefully with my notebook and a working pen in hand. Good evening to you.