Life came into mine a week ago and left me yesterday. I buried her under the pink frangipani that peers into my bedroom window and blanketed her tiny body with flowers. I’ve forgotten the number of times I told her I loved her as I tried to coax her tiny mouth into suckling the bottle, I don’t think I told her enough- I wanted to love her even more, even longer. She hadn’t even opened her eyes to the world. Last night, my mind swam with images of her, so many moments because even in so short a time, I spent it all with her, every hour of the eight days, night and day- her wobbly uncertain legs, her tiny perked up ears, her milk moustache, her warm little belly that I would rub, attempting to burp her after each meal, her little tail that would curl into her body when she went to sleep, her tiny wet nose, her whiskered cheeks, her sweet little paws, the tuft of white on her neck, her milky kitteny scent.
I really loved her. So so much.
She didn’t understand death, couldn’t fathom the alienness of pain, she was too little to know the limits of mortality. She clung on to the end in confusion of it all and it broke my heart.
