Thoughts on grief.

Today a beloved cat died. Old, one-eyed, and tired from her long journey from rough streets to the home where she was deeply loved.

Thirteen years is a long time.

She was the most loving cat I’ve ever known. She licked the face of her owner, gently grooming his beard when he came home from work. I, only an occasional visitor, was greeted warily, then courted with gentle hugs against my neck, until she crawled onto my shoulder, then settled in my lap. Once the bond was made it never wavered, though months, sometimes years of absence came between my visits. Still Lily would remember. She’d join me in a nap, or wake me in the morning . Always, just as I was to leave, I’d find her curled up in my suitcase, nestled among the dirty clothes, her way of saying goodbye.

There’s a three year old in her house now. A usurper at first, then a cutiousity, then a grudgingly accepted fellow crawler Lily began to watch and protect. They built their own gentle bond.

“I’m not going to be sad, I’m just going to talk about her,” the three-year-old told her Mom. “And at night, Pink Bunny and I will dream about her whenever we want.”

To be loved, to be talked about, to be chosen in your dreams.

None of us could ask for more.