"Listen the music of your memories, this is the place you remain with me..."
I Can Hear The Sounds (Of You Not Here)
Lynda has made the arrangements. There have been tears and quiet talking. Oswald the cat is sleeping on his pink pillow. Sitting on the couch, Lynda said to me, her voice hoarse, "This time tomorrow..." She trailed off...
Jesus! Death row. I wonder if I should install a telephone beside the bed, with a direct line to the Kitty Governor's Mansion, in the faint hope a call will come with news that there is a stay of the proceedings.
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We sit, side by side, and try to remember what month Oswald came into our lives. The spring of 1994, sometime. We sit, side by side, closely, and turn things over and over. What if this, what if that. This is how we struggle with what is. And the time has come to stop struggling. I don't know that I'll write more after today. Probably not. Words fall uselessly when they are meant to fall uselessly.
Oswald the cat is asleep on his pink pillow, and Lynda is lying beside him. One of the great great joys of this long time has been watching Lynda as mother. She's been so tender. So full of love. And love is the whole ball of wool, for kittens and for people too. I thank the few readers who have shared this with us....
I am sorry for your loss. Oswald was an important part of your family and I imagine it must be very sad without the little creature padding around your lives
ReplyDeleteThanks Bruce. It is that. Each day there are moments of recognizing his absence and more grief leaches out. He is missed allot.
ReplyDeleteJust back from Sutton. This is crap news. When you're ready, you'll probably be up to opening your house to another guest.
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