After five years, i return with a memory: my Thank you note

It’s been five years since I last sat down to write a blog post. I didn’t plan to stop — life just swept me along, and in many ways, I moved with it: growing, stumbling, learning, and often forgetting to pause and reflect. But recently, something called me back. Not a loud voice, but a quiet presence - actually, several of them. This post is dedicated to those I’ve lost, whose absence still echoes in quiet moments, and to my best friend, whose love holds steady like a lighthouse.

THIS RETURN IS FOR THEM — AND MAYBE FOR ME, TOO

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The streetlights are dark, and so is the night. The moon hangs full and content, watching over me like it always has. I can hear and smell the familiar ocean just beyond my bedroom window - steady, like a heartbeat. When I look up into the summer sky, I’m pulled back to a time when the Milky Way felt like a dream painted just for us, scattered with yellow diamonds. 

The two friendly pet bats still circle overhead, the fireplace hums its old comforting song, and your cologne still lingers in the corners of the room. It’s been five long years - a journey of quiet nights, aching hearts, and unexpected strength. But through it all, love never left. And neither did the memories.

At first, the days blurred together. Grief has a way of folding time, making everything feel both heavy and hollow. I held on to the smallest things - your old notes, the way the sunlight hit the floor just like it used to, the sound of the ocean at night. They became anchors, reminders that something once beautiful existed here.

But slowly, something shifted. The quiet start to feel less empty and more peaceful. I began to find pieces of myself in places I hadn’t looked before - I long walks alone, in morning coffee, in conversations with strangers who reminded me that life keeps moving even when we don’t feel ready for it.

I didn’t forget you. I never could. But I learned to carry your love with me instead of chasing it in the past. Growth, I realised, isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s soft, like learning to smile again without guilt or making space for joy without apology. 

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In my dream, you appear happy. You’re jumping up and down, full of the same excitement and energy you always had, as if to tell me, “I’m okay.” I wake up with a bittersweet ache - a smile through the tears - because I believe you really are okay, wherever you are now.

You’ve always been more than just a dog. You were a companion, a source of unconditional love, and over this past years,  you quietly became one of my greatest teachers.

Even when we were apart - with me living far away - the bond never broke. Visiting meant cuddles on the couch, that old toy you never gave up on, and your goofy ways of showing affection. You reminded me of joy in the simplest forms: a wagging tail, a nuzzle after a long day, the way you’d sit like a wise little Buddha watching the world.

And now, in your absence, I realise how much you helped me grow. You taught me presence - how to be in the moment, how to love fully without expectation. You showed me what it means to care for another being with patience and gentleness. You were there through moments of change, uncertainty, and self-discovery. You anchored me when everything else felt unsteady.

Losing you has left a quiet space in my life. But even in that emptiness, there is something full - the memory of your joy, the lessons you left behind, and the part of you that still lives in me.

So thank you, Charlie. For being my friend. For being my joy. For being my guide in more ways than I could have known at the time.

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You packed your suitcase two weeks before; it was the person you were. Set in your gentle ways, organised, always on time and full of love for letting me go explore the world all those years ago. You folded each item with care, chatting excitedly about what you’d wear in Tanzania, asking questions about the weather, the food, the colours of the sky.

We talked about the markets you wanted to see, the people you hoped to meet, the stories we’d gather together. You were ready - not just with clothes and passports, but with your wide, open heart, as always.

And then, just like that, everything shifted.

The phone call came. A stroke. Words I never expected to hear - not when we were so close to reuniting. Not when you were so full of plans and joy. The suitcase stood by the door, still waiting, while time suddenly collapsed into a blur of hospital visits, prayers, and holding onto hope.

But even as your world narrowed to hospital rooms and quiet corners, you were still you.

You smiled when you saw us. You reached out your hand. You found your way to laughter, even if the words were slower to come. And we celebrated the little victories - a movement in your fingers, a sparkle in your eye, your sheer determination to connect.

Because that’s who you were: a woman who poured love into the world. Into our family. Into neighbours you checked on every morning. Into friends who laughed louder when you were around. Into me - always into me.

Your journey didn’t end with the stroke. It just changed shape.

And while that suitcase never made it onto the plane, your spirit has travelled with me every day since. In the way I greet people. In how I care for those around me. In the deep, unshakable joy I feel when I think of you dancing in the kitchen, making tea for everyone, making everything feel like home.

So this isn’t a story of what was lost.

It’s a celebration of what remains. Of a woman who loved big and lived well. Who was ready for adventure, even if it didn’t unfold the way we imagined. Who taught me what it means to show up - early, packed, and full of love.

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Sometimes it's the journey that teaches you a lot about your destination. - Drake

@alberteppo