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If these paws could write, I would tell you thank you. For my food bowl, for the water bowl, for the treat bowl I loved ever so.

If these paws could write, they would tell you how much I loved your warm clothes from the dryer. The way you held me in your lap while I slept. I would write about how much I loved being your baby.

If these paws could write, they would write about how you saved my life and gave me a second chance. I would write unending about how I could fit in the palm of your hand, and how you gifted me with sight that I would not otherwise have had.

If these paws could write, they would tell you how grateful I am that I got to see you and to be loved by you; how wonderful to have become part of such a large family, and to be surrounded by my own kind and people that loved me.

If these paws could write, I would write you a sonnet that Shakespeare could never dream of. I would tell you how happy I was to make biscuits in your lap, and how you put up with my sharp claws that dug into you with love because I felt safe.

If these paws could write, I would write to you about how happy I am now: to be free of pain, to be able to see without any problems, and to be with my sister, brothers and nephew again.

If these paws could write, I would tell you this: do not be sad because I am gone, but be thankful that I was here. Cry if you need to, but not for too long. I understand that goodbyes are hard, but you will see me again. Don't let your heart get so heavy, that you don't let another in.

And since these paws do not write, I will say that I love you, and my last word will be the first one I said to you:

We had three of our cats pass away unexpectedly, and the most recent was this morning. I cried writing this because I am overwhelmed with grief. We all are, and we're trying to figure out what's going on. It's hard to see the light at the end when it just keeps getting pushed further back. It really hurts so much, and I just had to cope with it somehow, so I wrote this for my mom, from the perspective of the cat we lost this morning, Midnight. Prayers appreciated.
Claire Elizabeth Jul 2023
How does one lose a creature gracefully…?

Is it possible to just be okay with a quick goodbye under the hum of those awful fluorescent lights? Would it have been easier, kinder, softer, if the lights were lamps scattered about the space, yellow and murmuring? When does the gut-wrneching tightening stop? Will I ever let the sadness of it leave my chest?

Sitting in this complacent grief even months after it all is kind

I know that the grief will let me cry and I know that when I do, it doesn’t judge me for my “I wish things could go back to normal.” Because regardless of how familiar the New Ways become, it still isn’t the same. I am bookended by these two creatures that have and continue to adore the Earth I walk on. But the Old Ways stick with us for longer than we’d maybe like.

But in filling that little empty nook, the small nest where a dog named Nelson used to lie, I’ve forced myself to grow, to become changed.

My adult life started when I got Nelson, and it started again when I had to let him slip through my trembling fingers. And it continues on with this new creature named Franklin, who sits just to the left of that Nelson shaped divot.

Loving things that leave you utterly shattered is what makes us so mendable, forgetful, endlessly desperate for devotion…

The whole scene will replay in 10 years time, and I will be even more ruined then.
fray narte Jul 2022
i still wait for my bed to dip beneath your weight —
70 days, 70 taunting moons still come and go
without a trace

the shape of your tiny body.
i know you are weightless now,
and the bed doesn’t dip — my heart does
until it resembles a blood-red, pink flesh quicksand;
i wish we had fallen here instead, within my reach;
you can reach for a rib, a branch, a lifeline,
i would’ve given you the whole cage —
warm enough to keep you home, each bone will bar the door
and keep death outside and eye to eye with me.
the first one to blink loses.

maybe he would’ve lost his patience
and taken my heart instead —
every dip, every beat, every pump that lasts,
no more now,
and all my angels will keep you safe,
and the bed will dip under your little pink paws,
and orange feet

as i watch from the other side:
you are all the living colors and the world is pale like a ghost.
— written may 16, 2022, 11:28 pm

— The End —