My cat died. Poor, skinny phrases that make it sound like nothing. “There’s been a death in the family,” my son says, which feels extra applicable. Five months in the past now. And God, I’m so tediously weighted by grief. The pleasure in my day is diminished. I’m practical after all, regular service resumed. Socialising, working, parenting, smiling. Though watching unhealthy quantities of mediocre tv to fill within the gaps. The cracks are the place the darkish will get in. I’m bland and gray inside.
Buster, a gorgeous brawny Bengal, was my “soul cat” — and in our ten years collectively I used to be his person. We had such a bond. I beloved his barely troublesome character. He could possibly be irritable with my husband, who wasn’t as doting, however so
