We liberated Rose from her shiny paw-print decorated tin can this afternoon, and she is finally free at last, and that was a joyous feeling. I owed her that much and more.  I scattered her ashes across the windswept pasture at the top of the hill. They seemed to have a direction all their own, and they blew across the ground, and  across Orson’s grave and beyond and up into the darkening sky. This is a good spot, I think, for Rosie. She herded the sheep up there, and she spend the first few years of her life with Orson. She loved him, as much as she loved anything that wasn’t work. She was one of the few living things Orson always tolerated, and she was always too businesslike for his nonsense. Rose can keep an eye on things up there, including me.

The spot felt right. Rose was present when Orson was buried in that grave, but I thought burial too confining for her energetic spirit. If she wishes, she can update her map of the farm from there and keep an eye on me as well. I kept a small tin of her ashes – Maria, ever thoughtful,  bought it for me in Brooklyn – for my study, so she can inspire me to stay focused on my work. Rosie never dawdled much, or procrastinated, unlike the human she was always trying to organize. I still see her rushing to the open door of my study, eyes wide, trying to lure me out to do some work, then darting off, as if I should follow. She usually appears in the mornings.

Honestly,  I have no illusions about Rose staying around, no wish for her to do so.  I do not presume she wants to spend eternity with me, and do not expect to meet her over any bridge. Finally, and at long last, she is free. She can go wherever she wants.  She has earned her freedom and is entitled to it. She demands it, I think, and it is not mine to give.

I climbed up the hill with Maria, remembering the countless times Rose and I went up there to round up sheep, or take them to another pasture, or to battle some lamb or ram down the hill, or battle a donkey. A beautiful spot. I said some last words to Rosie:

“Walk, walk, walk, to the edge of the field.

   Then run, run, run, when the wind lifts you up,

   As fast as you can, through the golden fields,

  through the clouds,  and the sun

  and the snow and the rain,

  and the sparkling dust, and the stars,

  and the shining meadow grass.

  And then, go to sleep.

  Give up your racing heart, your long tongue,

 your warmth, your heat,

your anxious eyes, your hungry lungs.

  Then, you are free. Then, live your life,

as you always helped me live mine.”

So there it is. The chapter ends.  The nature of life has spoken its relentless piece again. It gives, and it takes away. Every day.

The world is bigger than us, and will have its way.

It’s done. Free at last.