Yesterday, Blitz’s memorial was reviewed and officially went live.
I shared the link on Facebook without really knowing what I expected anyone to do with it. Maybe click it. Maybe look at her pictures. Maybe read what I wrote about the dog who occupied nearly sixteen years of my life and now occupies a Blitz-shaped hole in practically every room of my house.
What I didn’t expect was to go back later and find candles.
So many little candles.
Friends and family had visited her memorial, lit candles for her, and left the sweetest messages and testimonials. Some of them knew Blitz personally. Some of them didn’t really know her at all.
But they know me.
And apparently, knowing me meant knowing how much that dog meant to me.
That realization hit me harder than I expected.
People took a few minutes out of their own lives to visit a memorial for my old girl and leave behind a little bit of love because they knew I was hurting. They acknowledged that she was here. That she mattered. That nearly sixteen years with her mattered.
And I keep going back and reading every single word.
Over and over again.
I didn’t realize when I created the memorial how much those messages would help me. Grief is such a strange, lonely thing. Everyone around you can love you fiercely, but you’re still the one waking up and noticing the silence. You’re the one automatically looking toward the place where she should be sleeping. You’re the one whose brain keeps forgetting for half a second—and then remembering all over again.
But then I open Blitz’s memorial.
There are those candles.
There are the names of people I love.
There are words reminding me that other people remember her, too—or, at the very least, they remember how much I loved her.
And somehow that makes the grief a little less lonely.
So I’m putting Blitz’s memorial here on my website, too. I’ve added it permanently to the footer because, frankly, if anything deserves a permanent little corner of the internet I built for myself, it’s the dog who spent nearly sixteen years beside me while I became the person I am.
And I’m going to ask something of the people who visit here.
If you knew Blitz, please leave her a memory.
Tell me something you remember about her. Light a candle. Say her name.
And if you never met her but you know me, you’re welcome there too. You don’t need a Blitz story. You can simply leave a few words, light a candle for my girl, or tell me what you’ve learned about her through all the ridiculous, beautiful, heartbreaking stories I’ve shared over the years.
Because I’ve discovered something this week:
Sometimes helping someone through grief doesn’t require knowing what to say.
Sometimes you just light a candle.
And I promise you, the person on the other side may be looking at that little flame far more often than you realize.
I know I am.
Thank you to every single person who has already visited, left a message, or lit one for Blitz. I have read your words more times than you could possibly know. They are helping me through one of the hardest losses of my life.
Blitz’s memorial:
Light a candle or leave a message for Blitz
Thank you for remembering my girl with me. 🕯️🐾❤️
✦ enjoyed this entry?