Floyd, My Little Boy
09/24/2007 12:45 a.m.
July 18, 2007

There is nothing that I can say in words about Floyd. This was the conclusion I came to after attempting so many times to put pen to paper. I wanted to write a journal entry that described my feelings for him, and then a poem that painted his portrait in every shade available to my mind’s eye. Yet each time I tried, not one word appeared that I could bear to put on paper. “He was…” what? “Beautiful? Loving? Loyal?” Or maybe I could talk about the way he felt, the way he smelled…the warmth of his fuzzy face and big muscular body, his floppy ears and monkey tail. Maybe I could write some words that would accurately describe the smile he brought to my heart when I thought of his large imposing outward appearance as he insisted on jumping into my bed and cuddling with me all curled up in a HUGE ball trying to pretend he was small enough to fit.

Maybe I could find some magnificent poetic words, adjectives that would take you through my wailing heart and leave you feeling the now cold and empty space he left behind, or the warm presence of his memory deep inside me. I thought about all such words, all such descriptions, all such poetry and prose. I tried to write down “what HE was” and “what HE MEANT to ME”. But in the end I found myself speechless, unable to justify the use of any word I knew. In the end I could only sense him, feel him, know him, remember him, and love him…my little boy.