Driving on the winding road, I watch as the rain droplets roll down the glass from the passenger seat. It turns into a game— which one will make it to the bottom first. I secretly cheer on my favorite bead, forgetting about today, just for a moment.

It’s as if the sky knew what happened. It mimicked the pressure in our chest and let out its own tears. The trees bent to its wails; you could hear it screaming. It may go unnoticed, but it’s easier to spot the pain when you’ve experienced it before.

Dad grips the steering wheel. Jasper whimpers in the back seat— there’s a heavy silence. The tension in the air was thick; it covered us like a blanket. Memories flash by like the trailers before a movie— just enough to get you excited but they never last long.

One was summer, 3 years ago. I recognized that moment, playing in the backyard. Music, old country, sung on the radio. Dad stood watch on the grill with a beer in his hand. The air was warm and sticky but we didn’t mind. Jasper laid out the tarp and set off the sprinklers. We charged down the runway and slid down the slippery slope. Cheers sound from behind while you chase us with excitement-

_And then the next._

The smell of hot coffee and sugar cookies soak in the air, Christmas last year. I woke up to your kiss on my cheek. I grasp onto that feeling. My body buzzes with excitement and I leap out of bed. I hurry down the stairs, my feet colliding with the wood flooring shaking the inner bones of the house. We spend the morning on the couch while we opened our presents. You laid between me and Jasper, your body pressed against mine- a snug feeling I will never replace-

_And then it’s gone. _

__

I claw for the memories again, squeezing my eyes and trying to search my head. They grow more and more distant. The unwanted memories take their place in the front of my mind. They circle me, taunting me. I relived these memories.

The day dad told me you were sick. I relive the look in your eyes and the pit in my stomach. I relive my early mornings, taking a moment to lay with you before I leave. Your body grew weak, your head hung low. A pill in the morning and a pill when we got home.

The summer had passed and the excitement was stolen from us. Dad did not light the grill, there was no sprinklers to play in. You were too weak to join us on the couch so we meet you where you were, careful not to disturb your aching bones. We spent our days inside, mourning before you were gone.

On your final day there was a shift in the atmosphere. A final blow to the stomach, and endless ache in the chest. Sulking down the stairs I’m met with dad sitting with his back to me in the kitchen chair. His head bowing in his hands, his shoulders rolled. It seemed like he was trying to curl up in a ball and never return. No words were needed. It was time.

We packed in the car, there was no bickering for the front seat. Silence sat heavy in the air. When we arrived to the doctors my blood ran cold. My face was frozen, an emotionless expression was the mask I chose.

Barking echoed in my ears, the smell of treats and dander. Jealousy grew in my heart— a rage for their lives, not yours. They led us to the room, the air was frigid. Sterile and bright, a single silver table stood in the center. Dad lifts your weak body and lays it across. The doctor steps out, our last moments with you.

There’s a glaze in your eyes, I can tell you know. I rub my hand along your neck and give you one last kiss on the head.

“Goodbye bubba”