What Remains in the Stillness

What Remains in the Stillness 

By Annette Camp

February 20, 2026

Grief arrived quietly, in stillness,

in the absence of familiar sounds.

No soft padding across the floor.

No warm weight leaning into my side.

Yet, I felt — I am here.

This place feels wider than before.

Corners echo.

A hand still reaches down

out of habit,

searching for fur that is no longer here.

Love does not vanish when a body does.

It lingers in doorframes scratched by joy.

In the worn patch of carpet by the window.

In the leash hanging like a question

by the door.

Waking up sobbing.

The pillow soaked.

Shoulders wet.

Tears streaming down.

The night has wrung something out—

not the love,

never the love.

Grief is love with nowhere to land.

So it moves through the body instead.

A tide that rises without asking,

that leaves salt on your skin.

A remembrance carried of a companion

through seasons of ordinary miracles.

Rain walks.

Shared glances.

The steady comfort of breathing in sync.

And in the end,

something heavier is carried:

the courage to let go

so suffering will not stay.

That is love too.

Healing does not mean forgetting.

It means speaking the name

without your voice breaking in two.

It means smiling at the memory

of muddy paws and reckless joy.

It means understanding

that the bond has changed shape,

not disappeared.

Now in the waking,

there are mornings with fewer tears.

There is space on the side, yes,

but also, gratitude.

The ache has softened

into something almost warm.

A quiet companionship of memory.

And somewhere inside

the love still runs.

Tail high.

Heart open.

Memories 

that were shared.

Real.

Good.

And always belonging to me.