It has been almost three weeks, and we are still grieving our sweet sweet pony-boy, Jasper. In some ways, it's gotten better, less raw. But I think I'll be crying multiple times every day for a long, long time, missing him so much.
I shock myself repeatedly by forgetting, then remembering. I get home and begin to call out his name, begin to weave his name into some goofy little song. And then stop. Remember. In the mornings, I still listen for him. Silence.
The stone that marks his grave in our garden was delivered today. Joe supervised a team of 5 men who moved the 1,100-pound piece of flagstone into position.
We spent a long time as a family choosing this particular stone. We wanted something beautiful, something big enough to stretch out on so that we could comfortably keep company with Mr. Fur Pants.
The spot we placed him in is along the squirrel superhighway on the fence. A spot the birds visit for seeds and worms. A spot I can see from my bed, from everywhere in the garden. It's not as good as hearing his walk, the jangle of his tag against his collar, but it's what we have now, so we'll take it.
We'll be bringing in a yard of soil soon, and planting around his stone. We looked for a red fern, but the fern that marked the graves of Old Dan and Little Ann in "Where the Red Fern Grows" is purely mythical, it appears. There are ferns that are red-ish, but no true red fern.
So now I'm really never, ever moving from this house. I will never stray too far from where our Sweet Sharbles now lives, feeding the roses with his beautiful self.
Miss him so much, but having a place to rest our eyes does make it better. A place to stretch out with him in the sun, better still.