I haven’t cleaned this glass window since Lou crossed the rainbow bridge in August. Right up until our last trip to the vet, one of her favorite activities was to sit on her bed on this bay window and lick the glass like it was smothered in peanut butter.

I used to think it was silly and teased her about her weird habit, but now those smudgy, puppy slobber-covered glass panes feel like the last connection I have left with her in this realm. Traces of her nose prints are still visible, untouched like she never left.

And I subconsciously dread that this delicate spiritual thread will disintegrate into dust the moment I pick up a bottle of cleaner and wipe the window clean of Lou’s memories. I’m not ready for this symbolic new start.

Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Or tomorrow’s tomorrow. But today, I surrender to grief’s paralyzing chokehold.