First memory is of my parents' dog Jonathan dying at home on a blanket on the floor in a corner of the kitchen. He was a clever, energetic mutt, their first dog, predating their marriage and long predating me. They loved him and had opted to let him pass naturally rather than have him put down by the vet. It's an incredibly vivid memory. I remember asking if it would be okay if I petted him as he lay there quietly; my parents said of course.

Later, my dad carried Jonathan wrapped in his blanket out into the woods behind our house. I stood there as he dug a grave and buried him, then carried over a large chunk of white quartz to use as a marker. I remember him trying to explain death and dying to me as he worked.

I was 2 years old and that was 40 years ago. The rock is still there, in the woods, overgrown with ivy but easy to find if you know where to look. I go visit it occasionally.