Grief is like a croissant.

It’s layered and flaky. It reveals itself in little bites. Sometimes you don’t fully taste the rich, buttery flavor until you’ve already swallowed it. It’s sweet when filled with chocolate and salty when piled with bacon. It’s unassuming as a side dish, yet the highlight of a breakfast sandwich. It’s packaged as a pastry and delivered as heartache.

Grief is a croissant.

It’s an item I recently added to my shopping list every week.

Soft and buttery, like my golden retriever Max, it was one of the few things I could still get him to eat as his body slowly succumbed to illness. It was how I coaxed him down the stairs each morning and how I rewarded him for being a good boy when even wishbones no longer appealed to him.

Croissants gave me hope.

Each bite Max took filled my heart with light, airy promises that he would be okay.

As soon as Max heard the rustle of the pantry door, his eyes filled with hunger—and with a lust for life I hadn’t seen in the last year. I could see excitement radiate through his body, from the tip of his cold, wet nose to the top of his feathery golden tail.

Croissants gave Max hope, too.

Grief is a croissant.

It sits on the floor, untouched.

Whole.

Not even a bite taken out.

There aren’t even crumbs of hope.

It was time. And when Max’s soul quietly left his body, that croissant still sat on the floor.

Grief is a croissant. I don’t care for croissants too much, but it will always be on my grocery list.