Life is cruel sometimes. It takes the young ones, the little ones, the ones that never did anyone any harm. Like it took you this morning. In a flash. In a flush.
How long had we known each other? Since the day of my fiftieth birthday. Eleven months and fifteen days to be exact. Not long enough. But I was closer to you than to many. You were always there, by my side. I could count on you. Literally.
It happened so quickly. No time for goodbyes. My ears are still ringing with those terrible sounds from the bowl. Whoosh. Clunk. Whoosh. There was nothing I could do to save you. It was too late. You were gone.
I blame myself. For wearing Hubby’s hoody with the shallow pockets which gape when I sit. For rising too fast. For turning too quickly. For pressing down on that silver button without holding onto you, checking where you were, making sure you were safe. But all the blame in the world won’t bring you back.
As I aimlessly wandered around after the accident I kept distractedly checking for you, each uncounted step a useless waste of time.
The girls want to replace you. But I’m not ready yet. I’m grieving, mourning. It’s too soon to find another you.
I wonder where you are by now? Have you reached the big river, on your way to the ocean? Or are you stuck at the end of our street with some crappy new friends?
Wherever you may be little pedometer, I wish you well. We had some great times together, you and I. And perhaps a big, fat fish will take you under her fin and have you start counting for her. Like you counted for me.