Which way do I go?

Today was an extraordinary Monday. I had my usual time with Margie this morning, and our conversation ranged widely and dug deeply, as it always does. Then I learned that my friend Donna Hayes and her mother Sylvia Dollarson moved to my neighborhood on Saturday. They're just seven blocks away from my apartment block now, and I walked over to their place and spent the day and evening helping them to unpack, sort, hang clothes, organize, and otherwise move in. Late in the afternoon Sylvia's dog Pepper needed to go out for a walk, and Sylvia, who is 75 and had just finally cleared enough space in her room to lie down, was too tired to take Pepper out. So Donna, who is still recovering from the exhaustion that hospitalized her in December, took her cane and the dog's leash in the same hand and allowed me to show her the way to the dog park just a block and a half away from them. Now their park is going to be the same one I take Bella and Evan to when they visit. I love this! Our great big sprawling city suddenly feels like a small town. 

And yet...In moving, they mourn again: he isn't there to help, he isn't there to make them laugh, he isn't there to hang the photos of himself, as he used to do. It never ends. Donna told me, "Moose was the one who would have been here to help us. He was the one we always could depend on." It is so painful, I couldn't even speak it on the day I posted this. I'm adding this on the following day, when the pain has settled and I can see it.