That is not her.
Its been three weeks, and I know she isn't there...
That is not my best friend, tucked neatly inside a boot box. It isn't my cat that I have buried - no, my angel has moved on from that soft furred, constantly shedding body. She's gone out - not like a candle, but like ripples on the surface of a pond.
I won't find her white fur all over my black work pants for much longer, now that she's gone... The vacuum, the washer - it'll all disappear, and I'm trying so hard to be okay with that.
My baby isn't what I put in the ground. That will rot away, but she won't. Inqui is light and love, the warm wet press of her nose in my palm as we drifted off to sleep, the kneading of her paws, the almost joyously painful pride in my chest when she'd bump her forehead against mine and purr.
My sweetheart isn't the last heaving breath, the sudden clench of desperation when I realized she was gone, or my inarticulate keening when there was nothing but the ache of sudden loss.
She is rolling in the dirt beside the porch, because the rest of the wide world is scary and this is where safety and love live. She's the scent of catnip everywhere, and waking up to your eyelids being licked by a rough tongue. She's hearing the sound of a treat jar being shaken, and thundering down the hall after the little red laser pointer dot. She is knowing that I am so humanly flawed and yet so perfectly, unconditionally loved... She is memory and energy and feeling.
She is not loss, or the gaping void in my life where she used to be. Those are feelings - not entirely her fault, but also not the way I fight to remember her. Her body will change, will return to the soil, but my best friend will never fade. Her love, light, energy, and memories will remain. She's merely away - not gone without a trace. And, someday, the hurt won't feel so sharp. It'll be okay.
Its been three weeks, and I know she isn't there...
That is not my best friend, tucked neatly inside a boot box. It isn't my cat that I have buried - no, my angel has moved on from that soft furred, constantly shedding body. She's gone out - not like a candle, but like ripples on the surface of a pond.
I won't find her white fur all over my black work pants for much longer, now that she's gone... The vacuum, the washer - it'll all disappear, and I'm trying so hard to be okay with that.
My baby isn't what I put in the ground. That will rot away, but she won't. Inqui is light and love, the warm wet press of her nose in my palm as we drifted off to sleep, the kneading of her paws, the almost joyously painful pride in my chest when she'd bump her forehead against mine and purr.
My sweetheart isn't the last heaving breath, the sudden clench of desperation when I realized she was gone, or my inarticulate keening when there was nothing but the ache of sudden loss.
She is rolling in the dirt beside the porch, because the rest of the wide world is scary and this is where safety and love live. She's the scent of catnip everywhere, and waking up to your eyelids being licked by a rough tongue. She's hearing the sound of a treat jar being shaken, and thundering down the hall after the little red laser pointer dot. She is knowing that I am so humanly flawed and yet so perfectly, unconditionally loved... She is memory and energy and feeling.
She is not loss, or the gaping void in my life where she used to be. Those are feelings - not entirely her fault, but also not the way I fight to remember her. Her body will change, will return to the soil, but my best friend will never fade. Her love, light, energy, and memories will remain. She's merely away - not gone without a trace. And, someday, the hurt won't feel so sharp. It'll be okay.
