Dying, like being born, is hard work. Even when all hope is gone of continuing in this earthly shell, the body refuses to believe it. Bravely it goes on trying to do what it has always done, to breathe, to continue, to remain.

And we keep watch, talking until there is no more talking, no more goodbyes to say, no more unfinished business. Then we sit in whispers, offering sips of water, bites of food, our eyes pleading to be able to offer something that is wanted, when nothing is wanted but release.

Then we sit in silence, sitting Shiva in advance, a vigil for what was. The last service we can ever provide. Sorrow and love moving in the room like a vapor.

By his last bed is a picture of a bridge into woods, in the fall, strewn with golden leaves. The path at the end leads into the woods. As the days go on, I picture him coming ever closer to that bridge. Closer to putting on his familiar red, fleece jacket and picking up his old, trusty Nikon camera. Closer to going over the bridge to capture what is next.

And I picture our old wonderful German Shepherd Waylon, our beloved dog emeritus, standing at the other end, tail waving, faster and faster as he approaches. Until they continue on together to where the path turns out of sight.