My Home and the Void Without Jake
My home used to be a place where I would feel the comfort of my family. Now I only feel an apparent emptiness, void of the joy I used to feel. This type of sorrow surrounds me, and I am caught in the dark, trying to find my way back to normalcy. What I once considered as an essential part of my life has abruptly disappeared. Without even a little time to prepare, I could not help but drown in isolation and shock. Jake was the common and most influential character in my life after my parents.
The Memories of Jake's Presence
Even when going home those last few weeks I could still find thin golden fur buried in the deep cracks around the house. That is the only thing left now. What used to smell like a dog and dirt is now fresh home cooking that mom would make to get her mind off the nostalgia. My house used to be a place of energy and excitement because of old Jake. He was not only an important pet in my life but also in my family. Jake would walk with my father every morning leading to family hikes. Jake loved to lay in the sun in the backyard while my mother would be working from her office at home, leaving the door open for fresh air. Jake would wait outside all afternoon until I got home and as soon as I would open the door, he would rush to receive me. When I was a baby, Jake would watch over me so that when I began crawling, I would fell on him instead of the hard ground. Unfortunately, he died only a few months ago, but the pain still lingers in my heart like it was yesterday.
The Last Days With Jake
During spring break of my junior year, I stayed at home while all my friends were on vacation. As a result, I spent most of my days going with Jake to the park and later coming back home where he laid on the living room floor as he watched me play video games for more hours that I must admit. I would always spend a lot of time with Jake during the spring break. One of the last days of my break after my friends were finally back in town, I snuck out to attend a party. It was in the early morning, and as I walked out of my room, Jake raised his head from the bed in the family room across the door. I quietly made my way out through the door, opening it as slowly as possible as we kept eye contact. He knew what I was up to but did not bark. Even the time I opened the door on my return, Jake did not bark at all, and that was strange since he was a dog that liked to express himself vocally. Instead, he slept next to the door waiting for my return. Jake had been my family's golden retriever for as long as I can remember. The month that followed his death was tough to adjust to, and even to this day, the home still feels different.
The Fall and the Scar, a Constant Reminder
I have a long scar on my left leg that starts above my knee and goes all the way to the top of my shin. The dent has reduced a little bit, but it is still clearly visible. When I was twelve years, I took Jake out for a walk with me. Jake always walked at my pace and stood by my side without applying much pressure to its leash. He never got distracted by people, dogs or even cats that we passed along the way. However, the only things that Jake hated were squirrels. As we walked back home from the twenty-minute walk and I kept on checking my phone and not paying attention to the houses and yards in front of us. Little did I know that the house on the corner of the street had a huge tree in the middle of the yard and as we passed by there were two squirrels that locked eyes with Jake and scurried away. Jake pounced, making my frail body fly thus hitting the corner of the sidewalk with my leg as I dragged myself onto the lawn.
The Pain of Losing Jake
The physical pain I felt from the fall was nothing compared to the emotional pain of his loss. At least the physical pain faded in a reasonable amount of time. The emotional distress was like a cold shiv to my body that has not waned. Jake had been more than a family dog to me. He was a companion that would watch over me during my infant years and would stay by my side throughout my life.
