These Three Hours

  I am writing this piece in the last three hours of Laila's life. At one o'clock, some men will come that we don't know, they will cross the threshold of this house that has so intricately woven me together for the past seven years and they will take with them a small piece of magic still hanging in the air from what she left behind.
 The symbolism is everywhere. Last night, after two Benadryl, I lay in bed studying the wall. I noticed a strip under the windowsill of electric green paint; tears came to my eyes and I began to weep.
 When I was a sophomore in high school I experience a state of mania that was perhaps the most dramatic episode of my life. I took left over lime green paint from the garage, covered the walls with it and wrote Dickinson's poetry in eclectic fonts from ceiling to floor. After I was finished, I was left with a loud, chaotic mess. I had absolutely destroyed my room! Panicked, I called my mom and told her what I'd done. She wasn't angry, she simply said..."Call your dad and see if he will loan you some money for paint...repainting it won't be that difficult." He was used to my frequent "creative" endeavors and he loaned me the money to coat the walls with a soothing hue of lovely lavender. I reached out and touched the green paint. Has it really been five years?
 I grew up in this house. Today it is owned by a family friend who was kind enough to keep our dogs for us while Mom and I decided to further our education. Though the newness has taken over, there are still remnants of our family everywhere. My sheets are still used on my bed; my pillow still smells same. My marching shoes are still on my shoe rack, complete with dead, flaking grass from dewey, break-of-dawn marching band practices. The orange and black letterman that used to drape my shoulders during late-night football games still hangs in the closet. I ache for those nights. I crave the adrenaline rush, the echo of the cadences, the energetic fusion of flashy lights, roaring nostalgia and a tidal-wave of head to to color cloaking our students as they bring forth the "spirit stick:" a representation of the paramount Norman Tiger tradition.
 The city streets are the same. Advertisements for High V.S. North tickets decorate Main Street. Taste of Norman tickets have gone on sale. Soon the overwhelming aroma of chili, the tart taste of Rusty's Custard, and the delicious selection of Van's Pig Stand will serve as a phenomenal pre-game while our boys lace up their cleats and prepare to bring home yet another Tiger victory!
 My life was here. The trees on Berry Road are the same. In the fall they will smell like fig or nutmeg... and their leaves will change. As winter emerges they will strip themselves down to nothing. They will starkly contrast the December sky. The snow will sit atop their branches; they will survive the weariness and the ice until the spring when they will thrive once more. There is a constancy to them...there is a promise.

 For everything, there is a season.

 We have had Laila since before Norman entered our lives. A series of tragic events led us to this place that we have since referred to as our home town. We feel it is fitting. There are so many memories here. This house is where we did all of our growing as a family. Laila, Mom and I have always been the three musketeers. It is amazing how the love of a dog can be the glue that keeps a family together. But since the separation of my parents, Laila's has. I have written before on how I see God's love in my animals. Laila has taught me so much about God's love. She has also shown me how important it is to treasure every day of this one precious life that we have.
   I remember my excitement when Laila was born, I was there when she took her first breath. Today, mom and I will hold her as she takes her last. She will pass in this house...in our home. Tomorrow we will wake up and life will be different, another chapter in our lives will be closed, Norman will close itself to us all over again. And like the trees in their constancy, time will continue to do what it is best at: changing things and molding us into something all together new.
  In these last three precious hours, I will sit beside Laila in my little house. I will play her Eddie Vedder, Stevie Nicks and Bryan Mcnight (a collection of all her favorite music to sleep to). And I will be grateful that God has given me such a glorious gift in my life. I will be grateful that in my "one wild and precious life" I was lucky enough to experience such a beautiful season.