Coming home tonight in the new dark takes me by surprise. I start crying as soon as I unlock the door. No one is here. It hits hard. It strikes like physical pain, has me bending partway over in the doorway. I am so foggy I left this afternoon without my wallet, only the dollar for bus fare I had in my pocket this morning when I decided to walk home from the vet, the carrier light in my hand. Sable alive and purring, tangible moments in the little room. After, I carried his small limp form to the back, laid him down on the table, tucked his ratty catnip mouse near his chin. Way too many layers to touch on much of it now, eyes drooping from our near sleepless night together. Harder, though, than any of the others, I think. There was so much life in him still, my vigorous little boy cat, my big love. Later I will try to do you justice. Tonight, when I settle in without you, I will see what comes. I have been pulled away by work, by people, much of the day. I am looking forward to returning to you tonight while you are still fresh in me. I know how quickly you can fade. When I lie here in the dark I will hold to me sweet memory, the small weight of your tiny form pressed against me in the night, the way you purred almost until the end. My brave little one, I am so proud of you. My dear Boo, sweet dreams.
So very sorry.
Thank you, Laurie.
Sorry to hear of your loss, Riba. I’m reminded of when I put my dog Buster to sleep. He started having strokes again, and I let him sleep on my stomach for most of the night before I took him to the vet. Our little pals mean so much to us.
Grieving can have its odd beauty — it’s a kind of final gift we give to them at the end.
Am thinking of you, and wishing you well.
Yes, there is a richness in grief—and I find myself feeling incredibly grateful, too. I like your sense of this being a gift we give—I will hold on to that.
Such sweetness and such heartache in the vision of your Buster sleeping on your stomach that last night. Thanks for your dear note here, Bart.