Good-bye FRANKLIN

  

   Our dog Franklin "FRANKIE" passed away early this morning, about 2:00 A.M., April 6, 2026, aged 13 years old. He was a white chihuahua with some brown markings. Frankie belonged to our daughter Elizabeth and her husband, James (who loved the little dog but gave the foundling up to us as they had many of their own); January 2013. For a long while, whenever the front door of the apartment was opened, Franklin would dash out. He got better at not doing this and quickly answered to his name, and would usually stop in his tracks, then return inside. 

    Franklin was already a maturing dog when, about a year and a half later, we got another poodle, Micha, as a puppy. Franklin was actually one of the first pets we've ever owned that even played with chew toys. Ten minutes after bringing a toy home, Frankie would have its stuffing plucked out of it! This fun trait was later picked up by the poodle and became Micah's hallmark of remembrance. Frankie remained playful throughout his life, though he grew out of this puppy-pass time phase; he remained eager to be included in family activities, long walks, and any outing offered. 

   After Micha's passing and the arrival of another puppy, "Frankly " (as Lady Snow nick-named) became guardian and mentor to Teddy. The newcomer quickly took over the chew toys; later, he became fascinated with tennis balls, which became the shih tzu's hallmark toy. Franklin was never forgotten, and at times reminded the much larger Teddy, who was really the Alpha in the home. The older he became, the more Franklin developed the odd trait of turning about and going out the door backwards, even after having his nails trimmed. 

   As of late, Franklin's hips had begun to noticeably be a source of pain, but he never turned down a walk, even when being carried became a part of the venture. He grew sick, refusing to eat, and later could not drink. This morning, lying beside me, he was found not breathing. He was loved and will be noted among the other Furpeople in our family. 

THE STRANGE JOURNEY

Since his wife died his world was utterly undone. Nothing was the same for Sulimeth. The fisherman of eighty-three years gave up fishing and seldom even boarded his boat except as a place to slumber. The old man’s strength was spent as he watched his four grown sons lay their mother in the ground. Three weeks after Nunessah’s passing he abandoned his seacraft and took up residence in a small stone hut, with a leaking thatched roof. The house was far inland from the shore, away from sad memories and loss. The one-room hovel was no home without Nunessah in his life. His dog, her dog lay on her grave and refused to yield to Sulimeth’s pleading. Dog and master both were heartbroken, changed by what their world had become, a lonely place without his love and dearest friend.

One night before a cold plate of beans Sulimeth cried aloud, “Evishkah! Evishkah! Oh, Goddess of the cold Night Shade, this life has become too much to bear, guide me to your realm and ease my suffering for I am nothing without my Beloved. Oh, Lady of Sorrow what meaning is there for a man without his mate? Frail is this mortal existence – all is but a vein illusion of smoke without purpose. To do it all over again, I would but do anything to have her back in my embrace.”

Upon the heels of that prayer, a knock came at the shack’s battered door. Opening it Sulimeth saw a hunched man, hooded, and shrouded in a dark cloak blacker than midnight. Though the day was nearing dusk its light was not yet gone. The shadowy figure before him brought the suddenness of winter’s cold. The fisherman asked, “What is it you need old man?”

The reply came above a whisper, “At the behest of my Mistress am I to lead you to her. Come.” With that, the eerie figure turned aside quickly retreating to the road before the stone hut.

Perplexed by his speed, Sulimeth closed the door behind him, then turning back to the road found the old man had gone further ahead of him. The fisherman ran to catch up with the stranger as he topped a hill heading for the cliff village of Slavath. “Who is your Mistress, old man?” But his new companion remained silent as the last light of day faded, leaving only the sliver of a crested moon to guide their steps.

Up ahead the two strangers spied the nearing haunted woods of Kinderval with the Blue Mountain range looming behind it. Pointing, the shadowed figure announced, “She lies there, deep within her cave beyond the forest road, and there shall your answers be forthcoming,” then the cold figure added, “I am Cirvron her Messenger, he that brings her children before her feet.”

Sulimeth did not speak the many questions that arose within his pounding chest but continued beside his new companion, nonetheless. An hour passed as the chill of deep winter followed the fisherman, but knew it was only midsummer’s day after. “Before her, the Gate Keeper awaits your three answers for your coming. Be warned and be truthful without hesitation.”

“I – shall,” came Sulimeth’s slow reply.

“Before Kudgroth’s Gate, you must battle the zealous Beast who shall challenge your cause. The creature must be defeated by the living before the journey of the Dead is met.”

“Am I dead, Cirvron,” Sulimeth’s voice cracked.

“Nay, you are very much counted among the living. Indeed! The entirety of this venture is most strange even to the Neitherlings below. Come, remember this saying: Alone as a seeker in humility I come.”

Only in that moment did the fisherman catch the faintest glimpse of his companion’s face. “I see on your face that same comforting smile of my own, long-dead father, but how is that possible,” Sulimeth asked?

“You only see that which appeases your fear. Now, be at ease until the Zealton is fully formed before you.” The moon slid behind whisps of clouds, covering the stranger once again in shadows.

The gnarled olive trees and knotted oaks stretched far overhead as the road turned eastward. Beneath those jutting branches the moon’s resumed light shone elsewhere, but not for those two travelers who entered the midnight of Kinderval.

Soon they came to a break among the thick tree line on their right where a wide space between two, towering white elm trees stood. Sulimeth boldly took that entrance into the great forest. The woodland path was marked with pebbled, white river stones whose way soon became lost beneath a carpet of withered foliage and an endless entangling of roots underfoot.

His hooded guide said, “From here, oh son of Man, you go alone to face your fear and speak your truth. For alone is this way that all men must take who enter the realm the Dead.” Then Cirvron vanished among the surrounding shadows of the trees.

With his companion’s absence, the strange warmth of summer came over the fisherman who suddenly heard the sounds of tree frogs, owls, and crickets of the night. An odd peace came over the wanderer. Still, Sulimeth went forward. Seeing a thin branch lay across his path, he picked it up, using it as a staff to steady his way through the dark trunks. Infrequently patches of moonlight beamed in from overhead and to his surprise, even the stars dared to glitter above.

Many long hours passed without any change to his surroundings, and then Sulimeth smelt an overwhelming stench filling the air. The woodlands grew quieter and darker. It was then his clear pathway abruptly ended with two great olive trees. They stood like black, gnarled sentries whose emptiness between them was a silent void.

From out of their twisted bark’s shadowy nothingness fear took shape in the growing form of a hideous nightmare. The monestrous blending of various creatures, smoke and shadows, fierce looming eyes, and far-reaching limbs ending in clutching claws. The Beast roared, unlike any living thing! A shrilling screech caused all the nesting fouls to flee the forest canopy.

Sulimeth stood his ground, “My cause is just even amid this sinful world. You are nothing to me and my way leads well beyond you. Stand aside!”

But the shadow took form and tossed the frail man aside instead. A weathered Fisherman of great age he might have been, but Sulimeth fought like a warrior in his youth! Beating and thrusting, pounding, and swinging against the dissipating smoke, which unyieldingly reformed and resumed its attack against him. Again, and again the man took brutality’s blow. With each clawing hit the man’s clothes were shredded. Again and again, he was beaten until his bleeding body stood naked. Then, standing one last time Sulimeth saw the massive creature lying upon the ground. Unmoving and defeated, the thing began to seep away into the ground like water on the desert floor until nothing remained of the creature in that moonlight.

Just beyond the gnarled gateway a troll-inspired; disfigured thing stepped out of the night’s gateway. Its red ember-like eyes blazed through the man before him, “Speak, creature, of the living – who are you with, why and for what cause hast thou cometh? I am Kudgroth, and none enter without my leave before my Mistress!”

Recalling the words of his guide, Sulimeth answered all three at once, “Alone as a seeker in humility I come.”

The goblin, half his size stared at the man for a long time, then sighed with grave disappointment, “It passes too easily from this life to the next, oh man with no purpose -- follow me.” The tiny figure turned back into the pitch void. Sulimeth followed. With staff in hand, the other followed what he perceived to be the curved walls of a cave. The tunnel was only measured by his steps which soon fell silent, “Come, do not falter now.” Came the echoed voice of Kudgroth far ahead of where Sulimeth could not tell. Still, he went on, tirelessly it seemed. The walls of the cave felt like a dirt pit, jutting rocks and jagged cut roots against the man’s searching touch. Numbness turned to unfeeling as the rough became a smoothed paved way, and what seemed like endless days later the walls grew wider and wider apart to where footfalls were all Sulimeth knew. If his steps slowed or stopped the only voice he heard was far in the distance like a faint whisper, “Come now, none that.”

On and on, without rest or sleep, without food or drink for all desire and sensation left Sulimeth. For his footfalls were all he knew and the urging to go on. So, he did. All he had in his thoughts was his past existence for nothing lay ahead, for him all had ended. “Come, do not falter now – she is here.”

Sulimeth’s reaching fingers felt the rough cave wall once again, and now even the roof overhead came down and brushed his head.

On and on he went as sensation came to his naked skin as he began to crouch beneath the narrowing tunnel that soon had him crawling on his belly with only outstretched arms to aid him to claw his way forward. Ever so slightly the narrow passage gave way to the faintest of a flickering light ahead of him. Sulimeth felt himself scratching his way out of his collapsed grave. Suddenly before him were two clean, unshod feet.

His nails scratched and clawed their way out of the earth. Sulimeth burrowed his way out of the side of an earthen wall, out into the expanse of an endless, underground cavern. Several arm lengths away from him there stood the beautiful figure of a nude woman. He quickly averted his eyes from hers, which were inspecting his nakedness, covered with caked-on dirt. Though Sulimeth had fully tunneled his way out of the wall he had not the courage to stand before the woman who towered over him, "Rise Sulimeth for you have come all this way for some cause, speak it now."

After the old fisherman, by trade stood up, he instantly covered himself with both hands, which the woman's smirk found amusing, "Just another filthy, naked creature whose rotting corps comes before me. It wants to beg forgiveness, or beseech its way into bargaining out of some misunderstanding."

Finding courage the frail man stood boldly with, "Nay, Vishkah, Caretaker of the Dead. In all my guilt I would deserve whatever eternity you would have for me, yet I am not yet dead and my course may be changed. My only barter request is to be a substitution for one newly come, my wife Nunessah by name." With his pronunciation it was then that his wife appeared, standing beside and behind the Goddess.

Suddenly the beautiful flesh of the naked Vishkah had become a horrid mass of half-rotting and half-scorched meat, she roared with a burst of fierce laughter that echoed throughout the cavernous hall. "There is always that one person who thinks they are more deserving than all the rest! Brief mortals who believe the lie that only they will never die, that it is always someone else's story. So you think you can switch fates with another? Eru gave you over to me."

"I am not dead and yet I stand before you as such, let it instead be my fate instead of hers, let me but embrace her once again, and then let fall whatever comes afterward. Make me your thrall, only release her."

The Goddess resumed her fair form but was now clothed in a gown of black. Her upturned eyes gazed sideward as if she were listening to an unheard voice, then to the small man before her, "So be it."

Sulimeth jerked himself upright, from the dining table, startled by an infant's crying from another room. Running to the bedroom he saw his wife sitting in bed half-beneath the covers, breastfeeding their first newborn son.

Bursting into tears Sulimeth raced over to her, collapsing beside the mother and child. He was weeping profusely. After a frightened moment of trying to console her husband, she asked, "I and the baby are alright, husband. Tell me true, whatever is the matter that has you so torn in this manner?"

Looking up at her with tears of great joy, Sulimeth began caressing the baby's forehead, "No longer am I a desperate old man dying without you, and pleading for the Keeper of the Underworld to exchange our fates, but I have returned to this very moment in time to relive a better life. Know beyond all knowing that I do truly love you, and here is all that matters!"

.........................................................................

BALTHENORN

 "BALTHENORN"

..(A Story for Mike Cope )...

In the old tongue, he was called Padalor, the Dream Walker. But in the later language of Sinquinto, Balthenorn. He embraced the sound of the new name more. Balthenorn was many things to many people and in the end was known as an adventurer of inspiration, for he inspired many who thought he had only touched their lives alone.

Balthenorn’s closest of boyhood friends was a Half-Fae named Fayendar. They were inseparable, twins to some, brothers among themselves. It was not that they had ever fallen out of favor with one another, only that life’s choices and paths led them both through diverse lessons to learn. Yet they always kept in touch through letter correspondences.

   Fayendar had received one such letter, one he thought was long overdue to his own replies; yet, nevertheless, he was enthusiastic to receive it. Being busy, but feeling ill the artist Balthenorn desired his friend to come for a visit to the village of Sinjar. Fayendar had not visited the city carved from living rock in many years. Balenthorn’s last letter made up his friend’s mind to make the distant trip, away from the demands of his own life. Fayendar greatly missed the company and stories of his dear friend. The trip by foot would do him good and allow him time to think.

   Leaving Lindol’s white marble terraces, oversized statues and many bubbling fountains for life in the near-desert conditions would be a challenging difference, but to see Balthenorn again would be worth the full day’s excursion. Leaving before daybreak saw Fayendar arrive at the Crossroad’s Altar, beyond the tent village of Slavath where he had stopped for a meal. The Nasilian villagers said that a trouble maker named Shay had disrupted the daily affairs in Mithar, but the people of Slavath revered the odd man. Fayendar had only just missed meeting him as Shay had left the day before, the Scribe was unsure if he even wanted to meet the old wizard in person.

   Continuing his journey toward the carved foothills, of the Blue Mountain’s western wall, Fayendar was glad he had brought his walking staff with him. The eastern road to Sinjar was less hospitable or cared for as most prophets and Witches came from the rock city. Most of those odd folk were not friends of the Mitharian crown. Fayendar loved the area but confessed to himself it had been far too long since his last trek there.

   Fayendar reread his letter from Balthenorn. He found himself audibly laughing to himself of his recount of falling into the Bay water and vowing to never net fish again! Looking up, the Scribe began to realize that he was the only one on the road. There were no wagon loads of goods or groups of colorfully dressed folk, with their strange traditions or chatter passing him. The usual migrants heading to sell their wares at the twin city’s grand Sibling market seemed to have stayed home, which indeed was a strange sight in itself.

   The details of the southern forest of Kinderval began on his right even as the foothills grew before him and on his left. The road curved and over the next rise, a few people could be seen gathering and heading for Sinjar. The closer Fayendar came the more crowed the landscape became with colorful wagons being draped in black. The tents that usually sprang up before Mithar’s grand Sibling Gate appeared to have sprung up in even greater numbers before the cut sheer walls of Sinjar. Many tents were beginning to have their bright banners replaced with black ones instead. Meandering through the growing number of people Fayendar caught a more somber mood over their usual festive tradition of constant music and laughter.

   Sinjar was a series of ramped stairs leading to the many, ornately designed doorways; all meticulously carved from the sheer face of the mountains that began The Great Blue. His friend Balthenorn resided in the middle of the fourth tier, a climb in the summer heat to be sure!

   As he began going up the first level, Fayendar saw an old blind man weaving a basket as passers Byers were dropping coins near him, “Old man, why is there no spontaneous market at Mithar today?”

   “Here now is yet another stranger’s voice who asks the same question! Lo, a rich man has died and the entire world has decided to stop in his honor. Are you the one they wait for?”

   “I am a nobody, and certainly no one of concern to nobles, the rich or famous,” the Scribe smiled.

   “The smile betrays your importance to those who know you, my friend,” the blind man smiled in return.

   Fayendar dropped a few coppers with gratitude for his time. The pathways, though broad, felt crowded with the movement of so many people. They were consumed in their conversations about how the dead man the city mourned for had influenced their lives with his compassion, wit, and wise words. They all sounded surprised that strangers had known him as close as they did. Fayendar awkwardly smiled or nodded as he passed among them, feeling like he was intruding in their personal lives. The Scribe questioned if he had come at the wrong time, ‘Maybe Balthnorn knows who they are talking about he thought to himself.

   After having climbed the remaining three sets of ramped stairs the Lindolian Scribe finally arrived at his friend's home but noticed many people were being turned aside from entering. Two men stood at the ornate doorway. Upon seeing him among the loud crowds of turned-away mourners, one of the guards called out, “You there! Yes, you. What is your name?”

“I am Fayendar of Lindol.”

   He shouted the answer into the darkened cave. Then turning back to the visitor, “Fayendar!! It is him, he is here!”

   He was bewildered by the cascading of silence falling over the entire village, from the highest tier down to the pitched tents below.

   After his eyes adjusted from the brightness of the noonday to the dim lamp-lit cave, Fayendar saw familiar faces, though grief-stricken, smiling and embracing him with warmth and words of enthusiasm in seeing him again.

As they parted, Fayendar saw the body of Balthenorn laid out before him. He was still and as pale as the cold sheet that covered him below his clasped hands. He burst into tears and wept. Standing he poured out his sorrow for all of their loss.

   It was only then that the Scribe saw a haggard figure seated in the corner. Having never met the stranger before, Fayendar instantly put a name to the image before him of the old man, with one stray eye and a left ear nearly bitten off, as the Prophet Shay. They called him a Prophet because of the strange admonishments he made against the rulers and priests alike. His harsh words always caused an uproar wherever he went as well as the unexplainable events that surrounded his rare appearances. The rumor was one loved him or hated him, there was no ground in between to tread.

   The old man’s voice broke, “Rarely has the world witnessed such an outpouring of real love and loss. Tell me truly, young man, if this one here, was allowed by Eru-Illuvatar to answer back, what would you tell him now?”

Looking down at the unmoving dead man beside him, Fayendar held his tearful emotions, “I have always loved you, and no one compared to how much you influenced me in wanting to be a better person. I am so very sorrowful I arrived late in coming and failed you.”

   It was then that old man, Shay stood and placed both of his hands over Balthenron’s pale face, “If Eru allows it, may you all find some peace in his.” Shay left that cave-dwelling as he did the crowds parted without hindrance.

As he had given them over to their private grieving, the gathering suddenly felt the weight of all their sorrows and embraced one another with tears. Fayendar stood alone, speechless and overwhelmed.

   

   A moment later they all hushed at the voice wondering from where it came, “Hail Eru of the Summerlands.” His mouth had not opened but then his moving lips said, “I loved and adored you all in my own way, know that will always remain.” Then Balthenorn’s eyes blinked open as he continued to lay there unmoving from the bed in the middle of the room, “Hold no ill will for me or one another, for these days are too brief for such trifles. When you are found in your own sorrows do not neglect to love the one beside you. But for now, there is a need for me to leave you to the cruelty of lessons yet to be learned, as my time is over now.” With that Balthenorn’s eyes softly closed their last even as he drew pale and colder than before. Yet from then on they never neglected to visit with one another and hold each other dear, as Balthenorn had been for them.

...

NO EXCUSES ANYMORE

 No Excuses Anymore

________________________

In sorrow, we cry

not for them but ourselves

not our loss but things undone

cry for thinking time was enough

we have no control over time

only what we do in its briefness

do not be guilty of self-deception

love unconditionally regretting nothing

follow your heart, dreams, and intuitions

the meaning of life is doing what

in death, we can not do.

David DeLane Snow.

MY FUNERAL

   No, I am not suicidal, not depressed, and not facing ill health or crisis.  Maybe, like not grocery shopping when you are hungry, maybe now is a good time to talk about death and our after life "wishes".  I have often made the satirical humorous remark: What happens after you die? They just hire someone else.  I love that truth packed statement.  But, what is a life.  There is more to life than just the dates, the most important is the dash.  All the experiences acquired are summed up in a little "dash" between those two dates of our birth and passing.  I see "death" as when we are 'forgotten' and no longer recalled.  I may not remember every tiny experiential detail of everyone I ever met, but there are many many times through out the day when sights, sounds, smells evoke a person's influence in my life.  I believe we all struggle as individuals to somehow contribute that one amazing thing into the experience of others.  Yet let us not neglect to recall that it is exactly "the others" about us that influence, guide and shape who we ourselves 'were'.

(This is very much like the one we picked out).

   We speak the name of a celebrity and instantly we are flooded with emotional responses; least of which is our own compassion among them and we are made to feel somehow less than they.  Who was I?  I can only have been me, and hope some of my behaviors, deeds and words were a positive influence on others.  I am not really sure of what all the perceived impressions are about who I am or what influence I was on others.  But for me personally, my biggest source of pride is; that I was a servant.  I tried in my own, behind the scene, "extra" in the background blur of life to be an important 'prop' to everyone else.

   When I was a child my dad gave us a Bible verse to memorize, and mine was Colossians chapter Three verse twenty-three; with it, my path was set.   As a child was I "the doorman" at our place of worship.  I mowed yards, worked years in Fast Food, served as a Chaplain's ASSISTANT in the National GUARD, work for the state SUPPORTIVE living center, was for years as the CAREGIVER for my disable wife.  So, looking back over my own life all I see was "a servant".

   Religion touts a thousand different roads, each spreading their own agendas, but the honesty of any religious path's core should be that of "servant-hood".  To GOD (the gods) and then vicariously exemplified into the lives of others about us.  I asked Brother Bounds, an 80 year old senior, who had memorized the Bible, and one of my most beloved mentors: "What was the meaning of Life?"  His simplistic answer again resounded servitude into my ears, "The meaning of life is 'Relationships'. Whether it's sixty seconds at the bus stop or sixty years with a loved one; we all desire to give back and make them better."  My heart-felt desire in life has been nothing less that, "giving back and making things better".  I have not always been perfect in achieving the ends of that purposeful goal in my life, but I hope I have not neglected nor strayed far from trying.

   Everyone I have ever met, I viewed as being so much above me, others were always 'better than me'.  Yet the older and hopefully more mature, hopefully wiser I have grown; I see all this time they have only been "different" not 'better'.  Different is good.  I would love to give even a frail thumbnail list of some of the people who have influenced my life and directions, but I would sorely be leaving someone out or not crediting them with enough of what I took and learned from their example.  I will say, I'm sorry I never said "I love you" and "thank you" enough.  More importantly, my prayer is that I showed them how precious they were to me.  I never had money, when I did it was spent on others and rarely on myself; which brought a better happiness to me.  Seems I always spread myself too thin, my regret (if any) is that I wish I had given more.  From today onward let me not neglect in doing so.

   I scribbled my thoughts with words in an effort to craft stories, many unfinished but all with the intent of thinking beyond the box of complacency and what if life isn't what we believed the moments were really about?  I liked writing things that had the reader wondering what came next.

   At my death, and passing from this life filled with experiences I want to be remembered.  Just remembered, as you see fit; because your version was probably the truth.  Our lives are made up of slices and views and bits and pieces of choices and consequences that are layered if not building toward - something.  What will my Obituary say about me? Who will write it? What was MY LIFE about?  Thank you all for being a part of my experience, my relationship with you was momentous, for you were an amazing slice I enjoyed with ever fiber!

A Servant's Prayer

   I am to be cremated.  The urn, and funeral plan have already been purchased (locked away in a safe box in the living-room).  I would love DUST IN THE WIND, and BREAK EVERY CHAIN, played.....(and of COURSE this one!!!)  Maybe some will be sad, but I would love to hear laughter and jokes shared and the silly things told; I had joy, I had hope, I had love, I had peace in this experience... and after this post I pray to go on crafting the rest of my own personal story.





......

DEATH SKULL

For Halloween, (a Pagan Day for "remembering the Dead), I crafted this simple fish aquarium skull for the occasion.  I marked names of those who are remembered in our family. We have all experienced the influence of Death in our lives.  Either people or pets, they are all considered "Loved Ones". Here are just a few of them along my journey: Bob Snow, Wilma Smith, Betty Scott, Michael Smith, Kathirene Peterson, Linda Townsend, Benjamin Garza, April, Oggie, Charlie, Milo Rosie, Samwise, Micah

THE SKULL

The Sigils, (a method by which the words of a statement of intent are reduced into an abstract design); on the skull "stand for" Earth, Wind, Fire, Water and Spirit.  The body is scattered and consumed by Time.  DEATH is the end of this physical existence.  The "after life" - comes with the myriad of expressions of religions and philosophies the world over.    

Micah Snow

 
   Micah was our pet poodle; a very special dog.  We had Micah from 2005 to 2015.  Ten years flies by and is too brief a time to enjoy the company of a truly intelligent, loving and compassionate friend as Micah had become.  What can be said about a dog.  He had character, and knew how to use it.  A dear friend refers to "pets" as 'fur- people'.  Indeed, Micah was "people".  Since he was a pup he tried to nuzzle under my neck as my head rested on a pillow in bed at night.  As a grown dog he loved climbing onto of my shoulders whenever I sat at my desk.  He would always beg for food at Alice's armrest-side; never taking from the plate to which his wet nose was pointed.  He made us laugh; and we think he knew he brought us joy.  He loved barking and calling attention to outside distractions, but yielded when called back in a calm voice, as he aimed to please.  My poodle taught me so much; about myself, I hate re-learning what grief is about again. Words fail; or they go into rambling.  Sorrow, weeping, loss of breath, runny nose, puffy eyes, deep sadness, a helplessness in not being able to un-do his passing, memories of happy times make the sadness of the initial loss even more profound.  The dog had personality and it will be dearly missed.  With a glowing smile Micah's eagerness always gave a tail-wag.

  The grand-kids spent the weekend with us and we had a good time, feeling a little bad they certainly lifted his spirits. From time to time he would get 'sick': quiet, loss of appetite and very slow. Upon our return from taking the kids home back in Dallas; Micah's condition had worsen. The next day his health was failing. His recovery was a day or so; this last time there was no recovery and watching him pass was terribly heartbreaking.  It is a most difficult thing laying an animal to rest when they show themselves to be more than 'just a pet'.  I buried him in the field near our apartment complex. Digging the whole, wrapping them up, covering them up and placing somethings to mark the area as special.  In a year will will be moving from these apartment.  I hope and pray this area remains 'marked' for us to return. Walks wont be the same, nor exploring the wooded area.  How do you describe the loss of a friend?  Realizing that the one who was always there no matter your mood swing was eager to love.  He was playful at bed time for his treats; I just pray his rest is peaceful as he is much loved and will be sorely missed.  We loved you MICAH, thank you for allowing us to be yours.

DEATH AND DYING pain of it all...

Don't know why this suddenly hit me. I just need to write it down.

1989.....

   I remember working at Bill Miller Bar-B-Que in Corpus Christi down on Leopard street.  One day just before the lunch rush I received a phone call at work.  It was my mother-in-law. She never never called me, especially at work. I knew in the instant it was beyond important and scary.  The woman had three part time jobs that poorly added to one paycheck. She needed to go to the doctor.  On the phone I told her I would be there as soon as I could hang up the phone. My boss over hearing this told me that if I left considered myself terminated; I left anyway and as the events played out I still had a job later.

   Betty Scott had gone to the doctor's a month before and no problems noted. We had a great Christmas. They ran test. We were scared. Sigh. She had test Monday. Tuesday she had ovarian cancer.  Wednesday she had liver cancer. Thursday she had lymphoma, cancer of the lymph nodes throughout her body. Friday she turned to vomit, went down into her lungs - she aspirated and went into a coma.  Saturday found my mother-in-law being pumped with more than four times the dosage needed to keep her heart going as a breathing tube did the work for her and the monitors declared the futility of it all. Frightening and dismay fail to describe the emotions of her family.
  I remember scoring the bottom of her expose feet in the ICU. Tickling her toes gave no response. The middle two fingers of both of my mother-in-law's hand had been taped to the raised and locked in place bed rail. Tubes for breathing and urine drainage, wires and monitors of the sterile environment were new to me. My eyes never blinked as their view soaked everything into my very soul. Her chest mechanically rose and fell to the whirling pump's unnerving rhythm. I was numb. How could this decline happen so suddenly to change my view of everything?
   I stood beside her bed. She had taken me in like a son and loved me far more than my own mother or step mother and yet she lay dying before me. Why? How?

   Suddenly she raised up, arching her back from off the bed dragging her head. This gurgling gush of black oil belched from her mouth out on to the bed on my side. With huge unblinking eyes I took in the horror of my mother-in-law's passing. Just as she lay down again I knew the breathing machine was unless in that moment the blaring alarms rang out and all the monitors announced the end.
  I felt this blissful giddy rush of extacy come over me.  An unexplainable euphoria.  Yet in that same instance time itself blurred to a freeze frame moment. A loving huge black nurse whirled my crying frail white wife about and literally carried her away in a slow moment of sheer bewilderment and joy.
   Betty was "gone".  I knew "something" left. I "felt" it 'pass' through me but only saw the physical shell shrink with deflation even before the machine was turned off before me.  Numb, hollow and cold - I recall that instant now as clear as the moment it occurred.
  Death and dying.  There are answers somewhere in-between the two.  I suppose that's what Life is all about, finding the 'answers'.

THE WHEEL TURNS

   I debated showing this. But I got to thinking why. People look away from death as though it is foreign  but it is only the closure in the Wheel of Life. Kinda wish I had pictures of other loved ones in this phase. Years ago it was the normal thing to do, photographing your loved ones after they had passed on. Yet we've become a sterile society where death is only glorified with War Heroes, though we never see even their flag draped coffins return as a reality check of their greatest cost. Or in movies where gore has so desensitized us from the real thing and the real thing looks "fake".
  This former shell of my mom looks nothing like her in life.  She didn't wear makeup, much less dark lip stick, and the ear rings - very rarely. The hair is almost funny because the artist had nothing to go by and she didn't wear her hair in this fashion. This is not meant to be morbid or poke fun, but like the open casket service, a Farewell tribute for the living. The book is closed now, the life over with only memories to re-polish till all the negative ones are faded and the good ones remain.

   With a deep inhale, I can go on now knowing I have no living parents, and my Wheel continues to turn in its season for now. Love you mom, with flaws and all - you were all human too.

Michael's FINAL VIDEO

Michael Thomas Smith

1955 - 2009

I've created a Memorial Site for such memorial pieces.