Meet Bella

On love, loss, and the companions who never entirely leave us

Have you ever loved a pet so deeply that imagining life without them felt unbearable? Losing Bella was that moment for me.

And Yet, her light remains. Bella’s golden thread is woven through the name of my new web site, through the words I write, and through the quiet ways she is still part of my life. I’m beginning to share some of her story here—not because the grief has disappeared, but because love continues to find its way into the light. Love remains, in all the places paws once touched.

Bella’s story begins here with her absence, not because loss is the whole of her story, but because it is where I am standing now.

At times, I’ll share Bella’s Musings here. I will reach backward into the joy, the mischief, the courage, and the ordinary moments that made a life beside her so extraordinary long after goodbye. Perhaps, in the telling, grief will slowly make more room for gratitude, and may the dwelling come to rest not in the loss, but it Bella’s joy.

These musings move backwards: from the silence after goodbye, toward the first flickers of memory; from the courage of three legs and a wagon, toward the miles she traveled beside us; and finally to August 2015, when we went only to look and discovered that Bella had come back to the breeder that very day.

The pieces will appear occasionally in And Yet, whenever the heart has room for them.

Bella was never just our dog.

She was right in the middle of us—woven into the ordinary rhythm of mornings, car rides, open doors, shared rooms, and every road that called us onward. She was joy with a golden face, courage on three legs, and the steady presence that could make an unfamiliar place feel like home.

Before there was a Lightkeeper, there was simply Bella: a puppy we did not expect to bring home, a traveler who believed every open door meant adventure, and a beloved companion who taught us that life did not have to look the way we imagined in order to remain beautiful.

This is not a straight telling. Grief rarely moves in straight lines, and memory has its own compass. So we begin near the goodbye and walk backward—through the dimming, the first flickers, the courage work, and the miles we shared—until we find her where every story of love begins: arriving.

If the early pages feel quiet, let them. The light has not vanished. It is waiting farther back in the story, where a small golden girl is ready to meet us again.

Chapter I: The Dimming

When the Light Went Quiet

The light went quiet when you left.

Not gone—I know that.

Somewhere beneath this impossible missing, you are still golden.

But not just yet.

For now, I hear the silence where your paws should be.

I look toward the place where you would lie, and for one foolish second my heart forgets.

Then remembers.

The back seat is empty. The leash hangs still. The rooms hold their breath as if they are waiting too.

We miss you in the smallest places—morning light, an opening door, a turn toward home, the space beside us where love once had a body.

They say memories will bring comfort.

I believe them.

I do.

But not just yet.

Today, memory aches. Today, your light feels far away, and I cannot make grief be grateful before it is ready.

So I will sit for a while in the dimming.

I will say your name.

Bella.

I will let missing you be another way of loving you.

And when the light begins to find me again—a flicker, a photograph, some ridiculous thing you once did that makes us laugh before we remember to cry—I will follow it.

Not away from you. Never away from you.

Toward you, perhaps, in a different way.

And yet—not just yet.

For tonight, my beautiful girl, the light may dim.

I will keep your lantern beside me until I am ready to see it shine.

Onward. With light,

Fran