And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
She is gone
And I am changed.
For those who want not to read a tribute, of sorts, to a cat, or wonder and grace, begone.
For those who know what it’s like, you feel me.
For those who don’t, but have supple hearts, again, you feel me.
And, lastly, before proceeding further, I’ll state that I am aware it is likely not right to use this forum to blather about something wildly personal. I shall make absolutely no attempt to loop back towards plucky marketing whatnot.
This is not my journal, never fear. My journal, if you want to know, is a grammar free, handwritten canon of unevolved whining and pitting whining. And, per the latter, one could certainly say today’s post diverges very little. I hear that. But, trust me. If you think what follows to be as such - you underestimate me.
Moving on, Nadine is dead. Death is something I can and then can’t get my mind around and that which my heart will never forgive.
Now, I put out four bowls vs five. I don’t feel her on my knees at night. Only in photo and imagination do I see the perfection of the simple black line that danced, as if en pointe, from her collar bone to the base of her belly. Coloring too delicate for an alley cat, too curated for a tabby.
I wonder, in the nights hence as I jump myself awake with an alarm I don’t at first recall and then I can’t shake, if only my experience of reality is lesser for I’ve yet been looped into what goes down after one leaves it? I fantasize of her having this vast insight now, an understanding. I pray the fear and the pain comes from the ignorance of my smallness, not the nihilism of nature. And how, if faith is an opinion in this case, I’ll take advantage of the interpretations that might cover my grief like a wooly sweater of bittersweet grace.
Grief. Mine. My grief offers little room for community. Don’t be distracted! Yes, you shall see me banging open the doors of my woe in seeming welcome. Believe this not! For the many, the kind and generous many, who’ve blown in I soon offer the boot. It is like they want to take her away. Package it up. Lock it down. Riddle it out in context and clarity, and goddamn, don’t you dare!
This hurt I hold like the cat I once cuddled and am so afraid of easing my grip that her memory and feel and presence might slip away; partner to pain, ghost of love.
Blessed, that is what they say, are those like me (who) loved and are loving. Loss, being bedfellow to affection, can be considered part of that and thereby needs to be accepted. Gimme a break. I do have the bounty of warm hearts and happy furry bodies all about me. I’ll keep all that up until my own conclusion meets me too, and yet I fancy that they’ll persist. We’ll all be well. We’ll come home together. We will eat from our bowls and curl up on our cushion until, well, forever.
Please, think not this not a construction of obstinacy nor an attempt to be contrary. No, no, no, it is true. I want no wisdom in my care. No logic in my love. Reason can live elsewhere, over here, with these pets on my lap, one Nadine less, I make no space for any of their leaving. I’ll act surprised. I’ll go on too long about it and keep on caring until, if we are to, meet up wherever we do or don’t after our afters.
Perhaps that is all to say, I’m angry. I am angry they are going away without us. I’m pissed I have to wait. I’m annoyed that the passenger van of timeless, immortal unity has yet to come for each of us at once and carry us to wherever other, perhaps softer, places we are to snuggle.
Nadine, I don’t know if you knew how bad I am at waiting, but let’s try. Let’s try together. Me here, down in the dumps, and you in the wideness of elsewhere. Thank you for visiting. Thank you for being a gracious guest, a kind friend, a trickster, forever patient, lovely, intuitive, and for allowing me to consider you mine. How off that is, huh? For whom is whose, my dear? Who is whose indeed.
