It started like any other day. Coffee. Breakfast. A quiet moment to get dressed, put my hair up, feed Monet, walk him around the neighborhood. The mechanical rhythm of routine. Except today was the day I was bringing Gracie home. And nothing about that was ordinary.
I wanted to rush out the door. I wanted to get it over with. But Monet needed care, and I needed to be functional enough to do what had to be done. So I slowed down. I moved through the motions. I walked my dog before I carried my dead.
Gracie had been gone for a week. The tears hadn’t been constant, but the weight of her absence hung like fog in my chest. I hadn’t cried that morning. Not yet. The grief had settled into something quieter—stoic, masked, matter-of-fact. That’s how I’ve survived most things. Autistic people like me—we learn to mask. It’s a skill. A defense. A way to keep moving when emotions aren’t safe to show. So I masked my grief and got on my e-bike.
I rode across town. The path I wanted was blocked by construction, so I took a slight detour, but it didn’t slow me down much. I reached the vet’s office. It was crowded. I stood in line like anyone else. Signed the paperwork. Told them what I was there for.
They brought out a navy-blue tote bag with a soft velveteen bag inside. Tucked inside that was a wooden box, carved with floral patterns and her name etched across the side: Gracie.
It was so small. Too small. How could sixteen years of life fit in that little box?
I kept it together. On the outside, at least. I nodded my thanks. Took the bag. Stepped out into the parking lot and just held it for a moment. My chest felt tight, like the air had been sucked out of the sky. But I didn’t fall apart. I had things to do. I packed the box carefully in a cardboard box, wrapped it in a towel so it wouldn’t bounce around on the way home. I secured it like it was treasure. Because it was.
She was eight pounds. That’s not much. And somehow, the box felt heavier than that. It carried something more than weight. It carried finality.
I wasn’t ready to go home. So I rode through the battlefield for a while—among trees, open fields, quiet roads without too many tourists. I wanted space. I wanted movement. I wanted time.
When I finally got home, I parked the bike, brought the box inside. I placed it on the floor so Monet could sniff it. He did, briefly, and then walked away with a toy. I don’t know what he really feels. I wish I did. He’s a Lhasa Apso—aloof, quiet. But he’s mine, and I love him.
I placed the box on the record player by the TV stand, and just stood there, staring. Her name was right there, carved into the wood, but it didn’t feel real. It felt like a foreign language. Like I’d walked into someone else’s life by accident.
I went to the kitchen to make lunch. Came back. The TV was on bird videos—something Grace used to love. I left it on for Monet now, but also for the sound. The house has been too quiet without her.
I sat on the sofa and ate. And stared. And cried.
I still haven’t opened the envelope with her paw prints. I slid it beneath the box. I can’t look yet. I’m still expecting her to appear around corners. I still hear phantom sounds and think, That’s Gracie getting into something again. But she’s not. She’s in a box now. That’s the part that keeps catching me off guard. That’s the part that hurts.
It’s surreal. Wrong. Like the world made a mistake I can’t undo.
But she’s home now. Not how I wanted. Not how it should be.
But she’s home.
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