Six. Six months is a long time. Isn’t it? I miss her intensely at times still, even to the point of tears. She was a good soul, a good cat, a very good baba. The best baba I knew.
Gone.
I don’t know if the decision was perfectly timed or if I went about things the right way. It doesn’t matter. It was what it was. She was my little girl, and she wasn’t going to let go easily, even as sick as she was.
She was seventeen. I wish I could only remember her as we lived life together, and not think of her last few weeks. Of our last few weeks.
She was my little girl. And I was her human.
And when I miss her most, I think of her and I nestled together in bed.
It never felt more right than in these moments, as she pressed into me and as I held onto her and drank in her presence, the sensation of her soft warm wildly purring body pressing against mine.
This picture was of us together in my first apartment, in 1998. I can’t believe that was nine years ago already.
I just… I wish it had been more. That she had been my little girl for ninety years.
I would not trade a moment of our lives together for anything. She was my best friend when I was small, and she was my roommate as an adult. I am still finding ways in which she had had a part in my life. A thousand little opportunities to feel the loneliness, to feel the loss. To feel what she meant to me.
To feel the ache.
But still I hold the emptiness to my heart and cherish it, because that is the price.
I love her as intensely as I did six months ago. The tears fall as freely. I know how lucky I am. How so lucky I am.
To love like that.
