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Death Isn't the Worst Thing To Happen, but it is the Most Final

I miss my little muse. I keep looking around, waiting for him to meow and beg to sit on my lap. He was in so much pain these past few weeks, but I want to remember him from before he was 18. Back when he slept on my arm and came down the stairs to the kitchen to lap up egg yolk. It's such a waste to have egg yolk on a bowl and no cat to feed it to. When he died, he was miserable, and I wish could take that back. I wish I had been able to hug away his pain. But he isn't feeling anything now.

None of that can be helped. Wishes were horses, beggars know the saying. I will remember him sitting on my sewing and on my lap. He retracted over the years, staying closer and closer to one spot until he could retreat no further. In his memory, I will be more attentive. In his memory, I will scratch some chins and ears- he loved having his ears scratched.

I have no coherent thoughts now- no deeper insight. There isn't any. Only thing to realize is the poem about the dead kitten: how can such a small body hold something as big as death?


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