There is no visible sunrise this morning. I’m parked in the tub, hot coffee on the ledge, the glow of a salt lamp for light, and above me on the skylight the pitter patter of rain and tiny birch tree leaves clinging to the surface.
I miss my Gus, my furry companion, my little soulmate. On mornings like this, if he wasn’t sprawled across the side of the tub or curled up on the mat, he was pawing to get in. He was like a shimmering shadow on my mornings at home. I don’t have words for his absence.
Yoda has become more of a snuggler since we lost Gus. He takes a spot next to me on the couch at the bookends of the day. He almost throws his body against my hip and will lie quietly as I run my fingers up under his collar. I don’t have the words for his presence.
Molly is adjusting. I got her a small “snuggle kitty cat toy”. There is a small battery-powered heart that slips inside the belly to mimic a heartbeat. A presence. She hid from it at first, but has seemed to accept it now without judgement, but without understanding either. I don’t have the words for her bewilderment.
We all miss him so much.
We are approaching the sad anniversay of losing Sassy in a few days. I like to imagine them both together in the beautiful “next”. A very wise friend suggested a monthly remembrance; maybe a walk or lighting of a candle. A reminder that although they have passed from this place, that they are really always here with us. For us.
We have two short trips in December and Yoda will come along for both. We had to leave him home alone on our Sunrise morning at the mountain and came home to evidence of his anxiety. We can’t understand how this absence feels to him. All we can do is make him feel safe and protected.
I do have a word for that.