It’s been over a month since we euthanized our beloved dachshund Moe. It’s not been easy. Each morning I let the dogs out, there are only two when there should be three. He was suffering from cancer, a jaw tumor that prevented him from eating much in the last weeks and oozed bad-smelling fluid. As much as I would give to have him back, I don’t get that choice. None of us do.

My grief over Moe’s death combines with other griefs as if bringing them to the surface. I keep thinking about what my dad told me when my grandpa died from leukemia: “He couldn’t get no better.” As much as I would like to turn back time, I can’t have my grandpa back when he was spry enough to play kickball with me. I can’t have my dad back when he was able-bodied and could fix anything. I can’t have my dachshund back when he would obsess over balls and toys and hide them in his bed blankets. “He couldn’t get no better.” The double negative just emphasizes what we know to be true: we can’t go back to what was before; we can only move forward.

Seasons change; people and other living things grow old and die. The mystery of resurrection is built into the world where what is buried somehow results in new life, and life changing form is something I can sense but not explain. Instead, I’ll focus on gratitude for having known and loved those who have died, and if missing them is part of the deal, then that’s the price I’ll pay. And with that gratitude, the tears fall.