As I look toward the fireplace, I can not see it but I know it is there, Sam's box, the small brown box. I can not touch it, I dare not touch it. For if I touch it reality will set in and at this time I can not handle that much reality. As I continue to stare in that direction, they appear again, the eyes, the brown unblinking eyes. Following me in silence as I walk through the darkened room, I can see them or do I just think I see them because they meant so much to me. Are they real or are they just a memory of love gone.

How is it possible that something can have such a grip on your life, your heart, your soul. He is what is known as an old soul, the wise matriarch of the rest, the ruler, his kind heart and gentle ways directed his actions which only made him greater and larger than he actually was.

He, the protector of the house, my friend, my best friend, the one I could confide in. Knowing the secrets I told him would be kept between us. Not knowing, not realizing how much of a part of me he actually had become. He was taken for granted just as we breath without knowing; he was there, always there. He was with me and consoled me when my life felt turned upside down. I could cry and he would just sit there and be there just for me, just to listen. Knowing there would be no judgments given.

He is now playing in the backyard still, no I am not living in denial, I am living in non-acceptance. Samson, those that loved and knew him called him Sam. Sam has passed and is now residing in the small brown box on the mantel. Sam's box.