I always considered myself logical. I don’t believe in anything supernatural, but rather that there is a scientific explanation for everything, even if we do not understand it. So I have found myself surprised by how persistent my irrationality has been regarding Atlas’s death. Even three months later, my mind, or rather my heart, cannot fully accept this loss.
I know he is dead. I know that is a permanent state. I know I will never again see or touch him, but it doesn’t stop me from having this crazy hope that I will.
While walking down the path along the power line, I have a desperate desire to see his black form running toward me with absolute abandon. I so loved watching him put on those impressive bursts of speed. Now I can only see a fuzzy ghost of him doing that. I see his shadow everywhere. It’s not enough.
I can’t tear myself away from the internet, even though I know I’m searching for answers and resolutions that don’t exist. He won’t be found in a search engine. He hasn’t been reincarnated. But wandering the corners of the earth in search of him seems easier than looking through the kitchen window and facing the now empty backyard or waking up each morning without his greeting.
I find myself wishing I were more artistic. That way I could paint his form continuously, or better yet, create a comic strip to let Atlas live on in some happy way. In the end, it wouldn’t be enough. It doesn’t matter how far I walk, or how long I sleep, or how much I write. He is not coming back.
I still see the beauty in snow. I still enjoy hearing birds sing. I still appreciate the taste of chocolate. But I understand why people say they’d sell their soul for a moment with a departed loved one. It is so painful, so incredibly, unbearably painful, to have them ripped away forever.