The cat realized he was gone before anyone else did.
On that gray September morning, the small basement apartment was not echoing with cries for food. The humans legs were left unhindered as they swung over the sides of the bed and walked to the shower or the coffeemaker.
By the time she was located, her people thought that she had died in her sleep. She was a small circle of fading gray tabby and yellowing white, pressed almost out of reach behind the TV. She curled tighter into herself when the smaller human pet her. The behavior was out of character for a cat who had been so friendly the mail carrier knocked on the door of the cat’s former home, worried that she had not seen the feline for many days. Said mail carrier was happy to hear that the cat lived, though sad she had moved away with the smaller human.
By this point, however, the cat was old. Her fur wasn’t the only part of her that was weathered. The volume of her meows increased with indirect proportion to the decrease in her hearing. Her eyes, once the color of moss beneath the shade of trees, was faded like her vision. The smaller human would be home to keep an eye on things that day. Hopefully the cat just needed more naps, as opposed to a final goodbye.
Hours passed. Daytime television was perused. Online games were played. By the afternoon, the smaller human realized her phone was missing. It had fallen between the couch cushions. There were many missed calls.
As the voice mail rang through, there was slow movements behind the television. The cat looked tired. Every step required the effort of walking through drying concreted. The small paws made their way to the couch and sat by her human’s legs. She stared outward as voice mail after voice mail played, urging the smaller human to call her brother.
The final message played: “Dad is gone.”
At that exact moment, the cat placed a paw on the human’s foot. She looked up with those faded eyes, and her sides heaved as she sighed. She stood once more and crept behind the TV, curled into a small circle of mourning.
My mom had been the foundation of our family, but my dad, for me, had been the interior design. He was everything that encompassed the concept of home for me. It remains difficult to write about him, because his existence was fundamental to my existence. How – how – have I managed to make sense of a world where I cannot meet him for coffee, nor tell him about the books I am reading or the things I am learning? I even miss the way he could turn everything into a lecture.
I can’t write about this loss, not yet. Maybe not ever.
Instead, I write about things that I think he would have liked. In my stories, the main character’s dad is always someone who is well loved. He is often from a large, embracing family. Most important, his mother is alive, and the most adoring lola ever.
When I write, I bring along everyone I have ever loved, forever, especially my dad.
