4. Present Continuous

Not all goodbyes are truly past tense.

Time has passed since the day Bandal left. The seasons have changed, and new things have come and gone. On the surface, I too seem to be living as if nothing significant happened. But strangely, my feelings for Bandal haven’t ended. Even now, they continue on, quietly, as if someone were pressing down gently on one corner of my heart. People ask me, “Are you doing better now?” I smile and nod, because saying yes makes things easier—for everyone. But I know the truth. My mourning isn’t in the past tense. The longing, the guilt, and the love I hold for Bandal are all still here. Sometimes, on my way home from work, I hear the echo of her paws. Other times, her eyes appear in the morning sunlight on my way out. Even in spaces where nothing seems to remain, Bandal still exists. Like making coffee in my tumbler each morning, or slipping on my shoes before heading out, Bandal is woven gently into the rituals of my everyday life. In my work bag, I still carry her name tag and the snacks she did not get to finish—just in case I meet a stray cat or fox who could use them. Her absence is no longer an event; it has become a part of life. She’s gone, but the story continues. I still think of her—today, again.

It was a weekend trip with my mom to a small coastal town not far from where I live. Along a seaside path, we met a tiny white puppy just a few months old. The puppy trotted over to my mum without hesitation, as if they were already old friends, plopped herself at her feet, and begged for cuddles with shameless charm. To the flustered owner, I reassured, “It’s okay—we have a dog, too. Would it be alright if we took a photo together?” They smiled and agreed. That day, my mom wore a violet coat—the one she often wore when walking Bandal. “Maybe I still smell of Bandal,” she said, watching the puppy nuzzle close. She looked at the puppy as if looking at Bandal again. I said, a little too candidly, that we had recently lost our dog, and that moments like this meant a lot to us. The owner, caught off guard, seemed unsure how to respond. Leaving them behind, I snapped a photo of my mom and the puppy at her feet. Later, when I told her what I had said, Mom gently suggested that it might not have been the most considerate thing to say—especially to someone who had just welcomed a new puppy. “Next time, just say we have a dog,” she said. And she was right. I only wanted to say that we once had a dog, and that we loved dogs dearly. Mom later said, “Bandal is still with us. We still think of her, talk about her, laugh at her memories. That means she hasn’t ended—she’s still here.” Since then, whenever I meet someone’s dog, I say, “I have a dog too,” and show them Bandal’s photos on my Apple Watch. That Bandal, in that moment, is not past tense—she’s alive in the present, still a part of my life.

Bandal always looked good in bold colours, but spring yellow suited her best. Her jet-black fur grew whiter over time, and those lighter tones made bright colours even more beautiful on her. Strangely, as her fur aged, she looked more like a baby. Bandal had always been timid, quiet, and reserved. But after moving into my parents’ home, her face began to radiate the warmth of a beloved youngest daughter. As she grew older, she also grew cheekier—speaking her mind like the spoiled baby of the family. Mom tried to get her to eat vegetables by mixing them with minced meat and tofu, but Bandal would expertly pick out only the meat with her impossibly precise tongue. She was fiercely opinionated on walks, too. If we tried to lead her somewhere she didn’t want to go, she would plant her little legs firmly in protest. No matter how small she was, the strength in her will amazed us. She would even wake my parents up at dawn every morning, earning her the nickname “Kant Dog.” And yet, her essence was always the consideration. Though she’d bark her head off during bath time, she never once bit or scratched us. Afterward, she’d dash out of the bathroom, as if released from prison, full of joy. It was impossible not to laugh. Bandal never held back from expressing herself, and I loved that about her. I wanted her to always do whatever she wanted, and always be happy. If I could share my time to give her more joy, I would have done so without hesitation. Bandal was a gift in my life. Thanks to her, I think I grew into a slightly better adult.

There are no new photos of Bandal anymore on my phone. To see her now, I have to scroll far back in my photos. That distance feels strange—like a quiet reminder that time has moved on. Still, I find myself reopening the same images over and over. Rewinding the same memories, retracing the same emotions. I look for her gaze. I try to recall the feel of her fur. I ache for the warmth of her body. There may be no new images to add, but my love for Bandal has never stopped.

And love, perhaps, continues best in the ways that do not end. So today again, I live this day remembering Bandal. This feeling has never ended. And maybe—just maybe—it never will.