It’s been eight months since I first found her in that aisle. Hope still walks with purpose, head high, tail gently swaying. But she no longer waits at sliding doors or sits in silence at 9:30 p.m. on Wednesdays. That version of her—of us—is gone.

Instead, we have something better.

We visit the senior center every week. One man, who hadn’t spoken in months, now keeps a treat in his pocket just for her. A woman with fading memory clutches Hope’s paw during music hour and hums lullabies from her childhood. And me? I finally fixed that broken drawer slide.

But I also fixed something else—something I hadn’t known was broken. My sense of meaning. Of stillness. Of how much you can heal just by showing up, again and again, beside someone who needs it.

Hope doesn’t look back anymore. Neither do I.

Lesson:
Grief doesn’t always look like tears—and healing doesn’t always need words. Sometimes, a quiet presence, a small gesture, or an unexpected detour can lead you back to yourself. When we stop waiting for closure and start choosing connection, we don’t just move forward—we bring others with us. And that… is how hope grows.