China died last night.
The news doesn’t seem real. For nearly nineteen years she has been in our home. My son had just turned two – a small, blond, curly haired boy full of energy, and full of love for this small kitten who (out of fourteen kittens born to three cats on the farm) claimed him as her own, and decided she would be coming home with us.
Now a very tall, bald-headed man (whose hair turned to dark brown sometime around the age of 3.5 years) who has little energy – and still a lot of love for this shrunken, blind, deaf cat who had stayed loyally by his side for nearly nineteen years had to come to me in tears to say the words, “China died last night,” and he broke down sobbing.
My son was with her in the end, and had to deal with her alone as we were in bed, and didn’t know. It is fitting that he was with her when she died, for in life they were hardly ever apart.
It breaks my heart to think of her without him now, and I pray that is not the case. I hope that she is there with him still, though he cannot see her. (Oh how I wish we could see them still, though their bodies are gone; how I wish we knew where they went.) I pray she is young once more, and free of pain, and right by his side – as she has always been.
China died last night; nearly 5 years to the day from when I lost my Chiku – and just over 7 months from the loss of my dog, Gryff. When will the pain end?
I fill my moments with small, unimportant tasks, and push the grief away. I can do that for a while, because for years she spent nearly all of her time downstairs with my son, and the loss isn’t so noticeable up here. When I go down to see him, though, her absence is heavily felt. The very air seems to cry that she is gone; even as I still see her in the places she has recently been.
I go to comfort my son and end up in tears myself. I am not sure he feels better when I go down; then again, I am not sure he wants to. Perhaps he is thankful to know that he is not alone in his pain. Yet, he is alone, for she was his. For nearly nineteen years I loved her, and the pain of this loss is great – but not as great as his, for she was his.
And maybe that is true of all of us who mourn – though surrounded by a crowd of people hurting from the loss, the pain is still our own, and we are alone in it. I don’t have words of comfort for my son – all I can share with him is my own grief, and my own lack of answers.
Were it up to her, she would be right there with him still – now and forever; and maybe she still is. I pray that she still is – and so much happier without a failing old body in the way. I wish we could see her still. I wish we could see all of them.
As I stop with the movies, and the games, and the distractions of the day, my tears flow. But how is it even those things can distract me? One would think for all of these losses, the tears would go on forever – and sometimes they seem to. So how is it I laughed today?
This world, this life… it is so wrong. I wonder how we carry on at all.
I used to long, so full of regret, to return to the beginning and try again. The more I lose, however, the more I long for the end – for the possibility that when I arrive, I will see them there waiting for me. And the pain will be no more.