A few days after our puppy Newport died, we took Bismarck’s ashes to his favorite beach (Arcadia). We made a little shrine for him and talked a lot about how much he would have loved [x].
“If B were in the car right now he’d be whining because he’d know we were getting close.”
“If B were here we’d have to hold his leash to keep him from running down the steps on the beach.”
“If B were here he’d chase that pelican right into the ocean.”
“If B were here he’d walk all over this shrine.”
B was there. I could feel him. A little bit of him. I felt the same thing standing with my brother on the section road near the site of the Souders homestead after my father’s funeral. Or when my parents and I went back to my grandma’s house to clean it out, after she died.
Places hold ghosts the way a dirt road holds ruts.
This was the first day trip we took the beach without Bismarck as a whole family.