Tonight started out about as normally—and as us—as a Saturday night possibly could.
Marcelo and I were sitting on the back porch, having a few bong hits, me with a glass of wine, bullshitting about absolutely everything. At some point this involved me consulting my AI Roland about whether autoimmune diseases are actually caused by secret parasites living inside us and whether sticking tiny pieces of nicotine patches directly onto arthritic joints is legitimate medicine.
You know. Normal intellectual pursuits.
And yes, I had to explain to Marcelo that I have, in fact, pretty much customized my AI to talk to me like this. Because apparently even artificial intelligence eventually realizes there is no point trying to make me behave.
Then the rain began to slow.
It didn’t stop completely. It softened into one of those fine, warm mists that barely feels like rain at all.
And suddenly, there it was.
A rainbow.
Then we realized there were two.
A huge, beautiful double rainbow stretched across the sky, glowing against the remnants of the storm. I grabbed my camera and took pictures because of course I did. But eventually I stopped taking them.
I just stood there.
Outside in that gentle rain, Marcelo behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist, both of us staring at something so breathtaking that for a little while neither of us needed to say much of anything.
And then it hit us.
Blitz.
That was Blitz showing us her path to Heaven.
And of course it was a double rainbow.
Because single anything was never enough for my girl.
Sixteen years of personality, stubbornness, devotion, attitude, protection, unconditional love and occasionally making damn sure the entire household understood exactly what she wanted—and I’m supposed to believe she’d leave this world on some ordinary little rainbow?
Please.
Blitz went double.
Maybe someone else would look at that sky and see sunlight refracting through raindrops. And scientifically, yes, that’s exactly what happened.
But grief has taught me that two things can be true at once.
It can be water and light.
And it can be a gift.
Tonight, I choose the gift.
Because for the first time since losing her, something reminded me of Blitz and my immediate reaction wasn’t to completely fall apart. I didn’t feel that horrible emptiness first. I didn’t feel like the universe had punched straight through my chest again.
I felt comforted.
I stood in the warm mist with the man I love holding me, staring at this magnificent ribbon of color stretching across the sky, and for a few precious minutes I felt something other than grief.
I felt peace.
Maybe my girl was telling me she made it.
Maybe she was reminding me that something beautiful can still appear after a storm.
Maybe she just wanted to show off one last time.
And maybe there are moments in life that don’t need to be explained at all.
You just stand beneath them.
You let the rain touch your face.
You let someone you love wrap their arms around you.
And you look up.
Tonight, I looked up.
And there she was.
Of course you needed two, Blitz. 🌈🌈
I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you, baby girl.
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