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Boris Gustav

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Sadness. A little word, a short syllable. Unfortunately, there is nothing short or small about it. If it hits you, it’s the 18-wheel you didn’t see in your blind spot that hits you so hard that you lost your way before you even have a chance to understand what happened.

Sadness. In the blink of an eye it puts you on a tailspin where you scratch the ground hoping to find your balance as you reach for air as its essence settles over you like a black widow spider’s web. It’s colorless, odorless, and otherwise benign – until it lands on you and attacks every sensory ability you have.


Friday April 6th I got on a plane for a trip of a lifetime to Florence and Venice, Italy. On Saturday April 14th, after having had the most extraordinary eight days of my life and was happier than I can remember in many, many years, I returned home and found that on Saturday, April 7th, I would be happy April, landed in Florence. My beloved dog Boris had died. Grief had come to pay a visit.

One look at my mother’s face as I walked in the door prepared me for the 18 wheel, but even then I couldn’t stop the harrowing impact of grief as she grabbed my hands and said, “We lost Boris “Lips fell from her. How? Why? When? What? A whirl of questions, a funnel of answers, but nothing got through because the howling wind whirled around me so that I could neither see nor hear nor breathe.



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