There is a particular kind of grief that hits you when you are scrolling through old photos and you land on their face. Peppa’s face. That pretty, soft, perfect little face.
You see her right there on the screen. So close. And every part of you just wants to reach through and touch her. To feel her soft fur under your fingers. To let her rub her little head against your hand the way she always did. To feel those tiny head bumps as she pressed into you with so much trust and love. To receive one of her little licks that meant everything even though it was such a small thing.
But the screen is cold and flat and she is not there anymore.
That is one of the cruelest parts of losing a pet. The photos are a gift and a wound at the same time. They keep her face alive. They remind you of exactly who she was, how she looked, how she moved, how she loved. But they also hold her just out of reach. You can see her but you cannot hold her. You can remember her warmth but you cannot feel it. Her fur looks so soft right there in the picture and your hands remember exactly what it felt like and that memory has nowhere to go.
Missing Peppa is not just an emotional ache. It is a physical one. Your hands miss her. Your arms miss the weight of her small body. Your whole nervous system is reaching for something that is no longer there to reach back.
That kind of grief is real and it is valid and it deserves to be spoken out loud. I loved her deeply. She knew it. Every head bump and little lick was her way of loving me right back.
She was here. She was real. She mattered. And missing her this much is just proof of how good and full that love was.
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