To the ends of the Earth

We finally had a free weekend all to ourselves. No working. No parties. No nothing.

It was blissful. All three of us, including puppy, slept in until about 9:30 a.m. We had a leisurely breakfast and planned out the day. The biggest event was to visit Morgan. Since the temperatures were melting the snow, we thought it'd be perfect to spend some time there without feeling rushed.

And we were wrong. When we arrived, there was still a six-inch layer of snow and ice on top of the grass. We donned our galoshes, Brent walked over to where we thought the grave was, and he started digging with his heel. The snow barely moved.

I ran to the car and grabbed this mini ice-scraper out of my trunk. Then, Brent started digging holes all over the graveyard, hoping against hope that we could find our little baby. Every time we reached grass, our hearts sank lower and lower. I gripped the bright purple and orange flowers in my gloved hands, refusing to let them go.

After a bit, I asked Brent if we should just come back. I was defeated and depressed. But hubby was not. 
His rosy cheeks turned toward me and then he looked down. He struck gold and uncovered "Burkey." Furiously, he continued slashing and wiping the ice away.

I sobbed and sobbed, crying harder than I have in a long time. It was an unbelievable relief that we found our little one. We jammed the fake flowers into the ground and stood hand-in-hand. Brent triumphantly smiled, his eyes dancing. Looking down, he said, "Don't worry, buddy. Daddy wasn't leaving without finding you."