Just whistle...
A short story by Karen Bush.
Nothing, but nothing, had prepared me for the awful, overwhelming grief. I shuffled zombie-like through the daily chores; I went to work, I came home, and each time the absence of Billy greeting me at the door struck afresh. “Get another dog,” Mum advised. “You must be lonely there, all by yourself.”
She was half right, this time. I missed Billy with every fi pain of his absence was like a physical wound. But while one day I’d get another dog, I just wasn’t ready — not yet, not while the hurt of losing Billy was still so fresh and raw. Adrift without him and desperate to fill the empty evening hours, I busied myself with mundane tasks, such as decluttering the kitchen drawers. And it was there, nestling among the teaspoons, that I found the whistle Grandpa Joe had given me all those years ago, and the memory came flooding back of him teaching me how to whistle using my fingers: