On the third day I brought my sweet baby bunny bear boy home.

I left the house today. Technically, I left more than a dozen times. Each time I closed and locked the door, I immediately went back and looked for him to greet me; to come running from the narwhal bed or the pink carpet. His belly swaying side to side and then me scooping him up like a baby and blowing raspberries in his belly and kissing his snaggletooth. He tolerated it, hooking claws into my hair each time and I’d laugh. I miss that.

Each time I closed and locked the door, I walked a little further away. Then turned around and pretended like I was coming home, but he wasn’t there. Closed and locked the door, walked out and down the stairs then came back and opened up, looking for him. I did this a dozen times to desensitize myself to this act before I made it to the car.

And in this way I left the apartment to pick him up. I didn’t think I’d go back there so soon but they called this morning with the news. Maybe it’s better this way.

When I was younger and spent the summers in Algarve with my grandparents, I’d often walk my Avó to the water.

She couldn’t walk very well so she’d use one of us for support. To my right, her left arm hooked around my elbow, we’d hobble to the water together, while commenting on the sun and waves. She’d dip her toes and slowly walk in, pausing at her calves, shins, knees to take in the cold water and shuddering. Usually, she’d stop mid thigh, when she could reach the water with her hand. She’d scoop up the chilly ocean and toss it over each shoulder. She’d pat some on her chest and arms, ask me to touch her back with my cold hand. Slow, gradual, exposure at her pace. When she was ready, I’d walk her back to the shore and ask her to wait right there for me. Turning away from her, I’d run in and plunge into the freezing water. After the initial shock of the plunge, I’d come up smiling and refreshed. My grandma watching the whole time.

Today I took small steps towards the water, inching ever closer and also plunged into the dark, chilly waters. And this is how it’ll be on the shores of grief; some days I’ll go in the water and other days not. Some days I’ll gaze out to the horizon and some days I’ll nap in the shade. But here I am and here he is, with us.