This Morning, Alone by Yoda Olinyk
For my best friend, Gnowee.
Gnowee was named after the Sun Goddess and she loved sleeping in sunbeams.
This Morning, Alone 1
Someone on my street asked where my dog’s been, said
he could set his clock by our morning stroll. Every morning
for approximately five thousand days, we walked.
I knew the time because you knew the time. I knew
joy because you knew joy. Today, alone, I walked. Lilacs
in full burst and I couldn’t bare it. But still, I breathed them
in. I breathed in perfume and purple and sun without
you.
This Morning, Alone 2
No one tells you how quiet it will be. (Or maybe they do.) Yes, I think I've heard it before—that when you lose someone, the quiet becomes deafening. I've heard it, but I never understood it. This morning, alone, I counted the sounds: a train scratches the track, a tree snaps in the wind, my neighbors fight and then make up. Oriole, bluebird, crow. No one tells you that these sounds will be magnified during the loneliest hour of your day, or that it won't be enough. No one tells you about how, for the first time in this quiet decade, you'll start craving noise. The same way, lately, you've craved sugar and sweat and gin. No one tells you that you might want to sell all that you own (and even the things that you don't) to move somewhere different, just for new sounds: a snake slithers through rough grass, a Tuk Tuk careens down a busy road, maybe even a baby crying. No one tells you about what you'd sacrifice to hear her lapping water one more time: your wide front porch, a spacious bathtub, your own name. And yet, I've told dozens of strangers this past month about the deafening quiet, and almost all of them, (Yes, all of them) have nodded like they know. This silence isn't special; isn’t rare. The way I cringe in the mornings when the creamiscle light fills my room or when the birdsong jumps from my neighbor's roof to mine. How the loneliness sours me into a stupor as I cancel another meeting. No one tells you about all the things you won't be able to get done while the silence grips you. (Or maybe they do.) I think it's hard to explain what absence feels like. How it feels like in your eardrum, like sand or ice. Like looking at the clock for the ten thousandth time but there is nothing there ticking, just an empty space.
This Morning, Alone, 3
Dread, for the first time
I dream the lilacs blooming
First spring without you
If you or someone you know is grieving the loss of a pet or animal friend, you may be interested in Yoda’s Pet Loss workshop. She’s generously offered a 20% off discount code, simply use SHAREDGRIEF to apply the discount at checkout. Click the link below for information on the workshop. This offer ends December 31, 2026.
Doula of Words: Pet Loss Workshop