NOTES TO MY LOST BABY GIRLThere is nothing I can say to you that I have not already said everyday since February 2, 2012, except this: Each day that I have left on this earth, I live with you. You are my eyes. My ears. My hands and legs…every part that is me, is you. You are my heart. You are my soul. What I cannot remember are your last few hours on this earth, with me. It is black. An erased mark, absent from my mind. Did I hold you in bed, before I got up? Did I look at you with that love reserved for my most special baby girl? Did I promise you breakfast, walks and kisses? Did I tell you “I'll be right back?” Like I always did, every Thursday. Because I was right back. And each reunion brought me to my knees. Literally. Rolling with you on the floor. Down on on all fours, you crawled underneath me. Like I was your little tent or canopy. Ethel, no one was more enthusiastic about the business of living than you. It was evident in your bunny hops. Your prancey walk. And that bionic way you held air beneath you, each time you jumped.

What I've never done is tell you good bye. I don't know if I said good bye those last moments I saw you alive. I don't believe I can say good bye, even now.

Ethel, your mama knows you were here. All 1-and-a-half years of you. Here, Ethel. Your life is bigger than the universe to me. You are alive with me, sweet child, each day that I breathe. And Libby knows you were here, Ethel. You were Libby's warmth and spoon partner, nearly since birth. Two little mushrooms, barely taller than the the rocks and sticks around you… That's how I first laid eyes on you, with Liberty, at Flawdogs. Two teeny hearts already bound. There was never really a decision to make, though I sat with the two of you until after sundown. Elijah and I, on a hill, at Flawdogs. Until Elijah finally said: “Mom, you cannot take the beagle without the Lhasa. You cannot do that to them.”

Because it was evident: Libby and Ethel were one. So home you came, the Unanticipated Lhasa. The golden girl. A miracle in our lives.

How could a creature be so perfect? Golden like the sun. Tumbleweed, up and down our stairs with Libby. Inseparable at play. Inseparable when passed out puppies. One beating heart, the two of you. That's why Libby nearly died that day too. In fact, I thought of this much later. The look in Libby's eyes. The frantic, burn-into-your-soul way she seemed to plead with me: “Mom's home. She'll fix Ethel. She'll make Ethel get up. Mom! Please make Ethel get up. I can't wake her. Something is wrong! You always make us better. Please fix Ethel now.” And when I could not, Libby vomited on the exact spot of pavement where you were killed. I tried Ethel. Oh, how I tried. I did not believe you could be dead. Impossible. You must be in a coma. You must be in a suspended state. If I can just get you to the animal emergency hospital, where you should have been taken within seconds of the hit… If I can just get you there now, we can bring you back. Breathe Ethel. Breathe. Breathe life. Gasp like you've emerged from water, from drowning. Gag and cough. Just wake up, please.

Open your eyes. You look like an angel asleep. Your legs, back and belly are perfect. Silky gold fur. Open your eyes. You are in my lap. Wake up.

I tried to bring you back Ethel, because I knew the last thing you wanted to do was go. The last thing you expected was to end. To be, no more. Why did you run out that door? Did you think I was back home? Were you running away or toward something, someone? The shock and pain of hot metal smashing into you. Unimaginable. And I was not there to hold you, my angel. Libby and I, we rolled in your fur sometimes. And put it in our mouths. Your freshly cut fur, saved from a grooming appointment, still with energy. With light. As if it recently belonged to your living body. Still with your smell… Your breakfast bowl sits at my side, even now:

Ethel, forever unfinished.
Here is your bowl, untouched since you last ate.
Please come home for breakfast and morning kisses.
Make February 2 end.
Come back to your mama…