11 weeks ago, we let you go. Much has changed in those 11 weeks. And every Monday, at 8:30, time stops, and I see your sweet face, and I feel your fur under my hands, and I whisper again, “it’s okay, baby, you’re not gonna hurt anymore.”
Every Monday, for 11 weeks
How many Monday will it be till I stop counting? I can’t imagine Mondays ever being okay again.
I’ve started counting Fridays. Two Fridays since Maverick. His silly antics and puppy nonsense are helping my shattered heart to heal, my heart that isn’t broken but shattered into a million pieces.
Still. I count the Mondays.