Weightless in His Gravity

This is the phrase I use to describe how it must feel to others when we try- and feel as if we are failing to accurately describe the importance of those we have lost.

It’s an almost indescribably lonely feeling.
 
One that we feel that only we can understand, because only we knew them. Only we loved them. And it was only us, that they loved.

How do we even begin to describe the blissful weight of all the small day-to-day things, the tiniest little nuances of our lives spent with these perfectly unique and absolute blessings? Every look they give, every cuddle they demand, every purr, every woof, every act of love, every moment of play, and even their aloofness… how are these things illustrated succinctly enough to convey the impact they have/had on us?
 
How could anyone possibly understand the weight in the warmth that these perfectly unique little things have brought us?
 
…this is why to me, it feels that everyone is weightless in the gravity of who it was that we lost.

We seemingly always get lost in our words, struggling to describe even in the simplest of terms- the importance of their existence to us. And it’s an incredibly lonely feeling when we know we’ll always come up short. Because to us, that gravity was something only we will ever feel.

Yesterday, when we were on our way from ending our boy’s suffering, I thought to myself how weird it was that no one else seemed bothered by it. How could everyone not be suffering from this devastating loss.

it was almost-

no…. it WAS, insulting.

How could they not know how special our boy was? How could they not feel this loss? How are they going on about their lives like nothing happened?
 
it’s because they are weightless in his gravity.

They are not missing that piece of who they are that we gave. That piece of ourselves that is immediately forfeit the moment they fell in love with his beautiful little face. They couldn’t have.

Because what Jackie gave us was for us and us alone. He saved us! Not them.
 
… so they will be weightless in his gravity.

When we lost our little Jackie yesterday, we lost a giant part of ourselves. And there’s a thing I do, that… well, I don’t know if it helps, because I have never not done it, but I’ll put it out there with the hope that it helps bring warmth and closure to those that feel like the gravity sometimes may be too much to bear.
 
One thing I do, usually as soon after as possible is that I picture them before me, standing some feet away, and they begin walking forward, after a while- they stop and turn their head to look at me, and they wait. And after a pause, I tell them that it’s okay to go now.
 
That there is NO way they could have done better by me. That their love, their friendship, their warmth, was the best that could ever be given. That is will always be cherished.
 
I tell them that it is okay for them to go now.
 
That I understand how tired they are. I tell them that I know that if they were given the opportunity to stay longer, I know they would in the biggest heartbeat they could offer.
 
But I know that this cannot be.
 
Then I picture them turning away, and walking until I can no longer see them.
 
And while this breaks my heart into a million pieces, it means so much to me to let them know that it’s okay for them to leave.
 
It fills my too-broken heart only some, if it is just to know that I know they knew they did oh so well at their job.
 
You will never be whole again.
 
And this is how it is supposed to be.
 
It’s said that we give a large part of ourselves to them and when they leave, they take most- if not all of it with them. And while this is probably the biggest reason for the pain we feel of their loss, we couldn’t want it to be any other way.
 
Because that would mean they the leave us without a piece of us, without memory of us of their own.
 
So find solace in the emptiness that is left by their passing, and know that that giant piece that is missing,
 
…. it will be with them forever.