I keep saying “Goodbye.” I walk around the house, and I see where you aren’t anymore. Your tree, your water fountain, your box, your bed under the Christmas tree (a seasonal treat), the cushions crushed under your weight. We aren’t ready to put those things away yet.
We aren’t ready for you to be gone.
It’s not just me. Brandon would come in the house and find you so he could scratch and kiss your soft fur. I watched him walk in the house last night and touch the sofa space where you weren’t.
It’s that oldest and most common of words strung together: “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.”
But I’m pretty sure I embraced every second with you. There was an experienced whisper: “This is going away some day—–put down what you are doing—savor his warmth, treasure the sound of his little motor running as he seeks you out. This is not forever.”
Amy said it best, “There could never be enough. We would always want more of him.”
True. How I miss hearing you calling for your food in the morning shadow. Your signal to begin your sacred routine of eating and sleeping.
Your absence means no cleaning your box, no pouring your food, no counting your treats, no twice a day shots. There was something about living with you that reminded us of something besides ourselves, that connection with the Other makes us whole.
Like your life, your exit has brought an outpouring of kindness and love that gives us something to lean on as we bear this literal deadweight.
Your tiny heart was so big. We were so blessed to have you.
So, I will stare at the places, the photos, the videos—- imagine I see you out of the corner of my eye. Hear you where I know you cannot be.
And I will keep saying goodbye.