A dry cough woke me up before the sun. Remnants of nightmares lingered- the searching dreams…they’re back. Oh boy, it’s been awhile. Water and cough drops.

Seize the day! The dark morning hours are best for writing, so I got out of bed, but I ended up laying on the couch staring off into space. My unopened computer sat inches from my hands. I boiled water three times before actually pouring hot water over the expectant coffee beans.

Skipping morning cuddles with Mallow is a terrible idea, so I got back in bed. Whack! Instead of soft cuddles, I hit my head on the corner of the bedside table. Ouch!! I never liked that table there anyway! I’m fine, just pissed off now. Screw the cuddles, go outside and pee. Opening the back door to let Mallow out, I stepped outside into an unusually dark morning, damp from a sprinkle of midnight rain. The thick black clouds overhead looked promising for today- perhaps we will see more rain, perhaps there will be a flood to watch.

As soon as I let Mallow back inside, she promptly peed on the carpet. What the fuck?! She’s house trained, but every few months, she randomly does this and I don’t know why. Feeling angry, I laid on the kitchen floor with eggs out of the fridge but not out of the carton. Eggs don’t cook themselves, which is incredibly annoying.

Back to the couch where it’s safe. Mallow wanted to play tug. She brought me her hot pink turtle shell, all that remained from a stuffed turtle toy. As I pulled the shell toward me and Mallow pulled back, the edge of the toy’s seam began to rip, exciting Mallow to pull harder. The toy has ripped plenty of times- it used to have a head and a body and four legs. What do I care if Mallow rips up toys? That’s what they’re for. That’s why I don’t buy her any toys.

The turtle toy was a gift to Ian, before we even had a dog. He forgot to bring his rubber chicken on a trip, so his students bought him a turtle to substitute as the class mascot. He cast it aside, saying it was “just a stupid dog toy,” and “not the same as rubber chicken.” But he held on to it. Somehow it was not lost through moving states and our van being stolen with everything in it.

When we got a dog four months later, Mallow was recovering from being kicked by a horse and a puppyhood of abuse. She was scared of Ian when he stood up too fast or waved his arms above his head. It broke Ian’s heart to watch her cower in the corner. Neither of us had ever rescued a dog with so much abuse history. We nervously exchanged eye contact, wondering can we do this?

For the first few days of having Mallow, she didn’t play with toys. She didn’t chew bones, she didn’t chase balls. We wondered if she had ever been given toys, if she truly didn’t know what to do with them, or if she was too scared to play with us. At first I shrugged it off, saying “Good, she’s not an annoying fetch dog. Let her play with sticks, she doesn’t need toys.”

But Ian was softer than me, believe it or not. One morning, he laid on the living room floor and gave Mallow the turtle, when it was still a turtle and not just a shell. To my surprise, her tail began to wag. She was typically too afraid to eat treats out of Ian’s hands, but she took the turtle from him. Ian calculated his movements intentionally, not wanting to scare Mallow. They played tug and Mallow would catch the turtle in her mouth if he threw it up in the air.

It was the first toy she played with. Ian and Mallow repeated this process the next morning too. It became a ritual for Ian and Mallow to play with the turtle each morning.

The turtle lead to Ian successfully clipping her leash on which led to solo walks. What might’ve happened next we’ll never know, as Ian died after only having Mallow for two weeks.

Fast forward almost ten months later: Mallow is still in the routine of waking up and playing tug with the turtle. This morning, Mallow tugged on the turtle shell, nearly yanking my arm and body off the couch.

This morning, when I saw the turtle shell rip, hot tears flooded my face. All the silly anger of waking up too early, hitting my head on the table, and Mallow peeing on the carpet melted away.

I was not expecting tears for the turtle, but of course.

Grief comes in waves.

It hits somewhat randomly. Sometimes it’s the most silly things, like a dog toy, that opens the floodgates to feel.

Sometimes it’s fresh chicken eggs.

This summer, I was at my aunt’s house in the Virginia mountains. She handed me a dozen fresh eggs to take home from her chickens. Tears welled up in my eyes as grief hit me like a ton of bricks.

Ian was not a materialistic man by any means. Most gifts fell flat and even annoyed him to receive. Ian already had all the objects he desired, and didn’t have extra room for things when living out of his truck or our van. But fresh farm eggs was Ian’s favorite gift. He would literally start bouncing or jumping up and down when it was offered, reliving the joy every time he cracked open a new egg. Breakfast rants about the higher quality followed by coffee dreaming of the day when we had our own property to take care of chickens.

It’s the turtle shell ripping that denotes too much time has passed since Ian died.

It’s the noticeable void of not feeling like my thank you expresses enough gratitude when someone offers me fresh eggs. It’s the letter that came addressed to Beth O’Brien that reminds me I never got the chance to decide if I wanted to take on his last name or not. It’s the smell of his truck, the sticky steering wheel and the way I can still hear his voice say, “Woah there,” when I turn the wheel too hard and the car groans.

It’s not the way he died or the nightmares that I have still searching for him that bring me down. Talking about Ian’s life and death don’t make me feel uncomfortable. It’s downright necessary.

It’s the big life changes and gossip about our friends that I desperately want to discuss with him. It’s the milestones Mallow hits that we don’t get to celebrate, like when she makes a man friend easily and brings them her turtle to play tug. It’s the random rooster call that suddenly reminds me Ian isn’t here.

Grief is let in by a whole bunch of random things that make complete sense, but feel like utter nonsense.

As I write this, I cannot help but be distracted by the little dots of rain that hit the window. With each drop, I wonder how many more do we need to create movement? For potholes to fill with water and washes to start flowing? I stopped writing, put on my rain pants, grabbed my umbrella, leashed Mallow up and we went to inspect the slick rock for waterfalls.

Going outside to witness the changes in nature is how I ride the waves of grief. Writing helps too. Mallow and I were lucky that day. More rain fell than I’ve ever seen in this part of the country. I stood on the rim overlooking the Colorado River and counted more than ten waterfalls cascading off the red rock. We even caught the beginning of the flood and followed it to the rim. By the afternoon, the water turned black and red and brown. Big, gurgling waterfalls shot off the rim to meet the river some 1,000 feet below us.

A gentle reminder that a flood of emotion is beautiful too. An obvious reminder that each wave of grief creates more depth, carving a deeper canyon within me.

Thank you to the Turtle who brought out tears today.

Thank you to Ian for teaching me patience with Mallow, and creating a routine of play in the morning.

Thank you to Halle and Sam, who gave Ian a turtle when he was without his rubber chicken, so that we could have the turtle as a reminder that we are never without Ian.

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