292/365 Children and Death

We spent the weekend on the Gasconade River, at a wonderful place called Rock Eddy Bluff, where we've been going year after year for 10 years now. Layers built on layers of experiences there. It's important in our family story. This past April, we scattered our dog Dara's ashes down at the creek near the cabin. Dara loved going to Rock Eddy. She was a city dog who loved the leash-free fence-free lifestyle.

It was really important to the two girls that we "visit Dara" while we were there. So we did, skipping rocks in the water, finding stones shaped like hearts or with holes all the way through. Unseasonably warm (it was my birthday, trust me, it was too warm), the girls waded and I took pictures.

Maeve, afterward, told me she was glad we got to visit Dara, but also that she hoped Dara wasn't lonely there, and that she wished we'd saved some of the ashes for our house so we could visit Dara all the time. She's the only one who consistently mentions our old rottweiler. She named her long-sought-after "pillow pet" after her.

And me, I stand there on the banks of Clifty Creek half in the adult world feeling like I'm humoring her (but in a good way), but half in her world hoping that Dara knows we're there, thinking of her. I mean, what does it hurt? Might as well feel connected.