Waves of Grief

Grief comes in waves. I am not certain how many waves there would be, when they would come, and the intervals in between. What I am sure of is that the first wave comes with the firsts. 

First car drive without Buddy. 

First time to go home with no one barking and wagging his tail like there's no tomorrow. 
First time that no one bows his head to get his hand blessing from us and then bursts running. 
First time to take off my shoes without someone hugging me by my lap. 

First family meal without someone barking to call me for dinner and sprinting to the dinner table, pushing on our legs with his feet to ask for more food. 
First time to open the terrace door without someone trailing for his pee routine. 
First Sunday bath day without those cute round eyes staring at me while your favorite worn-out towel waves above you.

First time not being able to say "Good night, Buddy" to my roommate for almost 11 years. 
First time not being able to say "Good morning, Buddy" the day after. 
First time to go to work and no longer being able to say "Balik ra ko, Langga. Work sa ko para sa imong food."

Sometimes it seems like Buddy is barking outside my room door. Asking me to let him in because he is done bonding with Nanay. But there is no more bark. And then comes the first time to feel a love that swells but it is now in the form of pulsating grief and longing. 

Good night, Buddy! I'll continue saying this every night until someday I stop and forget for the first time. Not because I've forgotten you, but because I've forgotten the pain of losing you. And it's the first time that the love and bond will outweight the pain.

Love you, Langga.