Grief can come in small packages, wrapped in memories that hold us in fleeting moments of immense sadness. We will say goodbye a million times in this life and it will never get easier than that first goodbye. We will hold loved ones and be left with the memory of that holding; frozen in time, like in a frame, those last touches remaining on our skin. I can still feel her warmth, the final holding before we put our beloved cat in the ground. Her name was Olive. She lived for almost 17 years. A small cat in size but large in affection. She was my constant morning companion, my first hello each day as I attempted to erase the grogginess of sleep. I must have shared a hundred cups of coffee with her each morning. When nothing else was constant, she was a steady presence.
Now she finds her home under the towering cedar in our front yard. We planted daffodils and placed a stone to mark the spot. It felt like an impossible decision to make, to let her go but it was time. The vet that came to our home was compassionate and gentle. Olive went quickly and quietly, her tiny body then only 4 lbs was still warm and I held her sobbing. It seems silly to be so broken up over this tiny creature but she was mine, and I was hers. For 17 years we gave ourselves away, offering our love and care freely without hesitation.
There was a time it was just her and I before I got married. In a single-room apartment, she would greet me each time I came home from work. When Josh and I were engaged, he lived 45 minutes away and she’d make her home on the weekends at his place when we’d come to visit. She’d wander around the car on the drive, curious about every nook and cranny. Josh made a 7-foot-tall cat scratching post that she’d Spiderman up with ecstatic glee. It’s funny how memories flood us when memories are all we have left. Things I haven’t thought about in years project onto the empty spaces, reminding me of all that was. This tiny life left a mammoth indent on my soul and how can she not? She was family, a friend, and a constant presence. As my life moved me from place to place, she’d be there with me while I packed boxes and she would sit in the empty ones. We moved a total of seven times, each time making her home right alongside me. She never hid from the newness of a different space but explored freely, settling in as if we’d lived there the whole time. She was brilliant at making a home feel like home.
I know I’m writing an entire essay on a cat but writing is what helps me process the world. My writing comes from things near to me, within my own heart’s proximity. Others are talented at writing about the far-off things, things happening in our world, and the shifting of cultures. We need both kinds of writing: writing that draws us in and writing that draws us out. Grief is what is near me this week and grief needs a place to go, so it finds its way here, on this simple Substack. Where does your grief go? When the waves of sadness come, what is the direction that flows from you? There is something special in the way our grief moves us, even in the times it feels as if we are immobile, we are not, because grief has movement. It pours from us into the rest of our lives, flooding our world, and changing the landscape of our homes.
I set up a little memorial for Olive where her bed used to be and I find myself wandering through our garden more where she lay. My life will no longer be the same from this point forward because her soul is missing from view. And yet, the projections of memories still play on. I fear as the grief begins to fade, will she fade along with it? Grief is the tangible presence of a presence lost. But we can’t hold onto our grief, it has a life of its own and we need to let it move as it pleases. We can, however, make room for it. We can welcome it when it comes for an unexpected visit and let it remind us of the love we once joyfully embraced and treasured.
Olive, you will be deeply missed. Love you always.
A song on repeat this week
The line that gets me every time: I’d rather kill a good thing than wait for it to die. We could have waited but she needed us to let her go. The vet told us that cats often decline slowly, hanging on because of the bond they have with their people. Sometimes we have to be the ones to decide the loss, and sometimes the loss comes suddenly when we’re not ready. She was ready. Rest in peace, Olive.
Condolences. What you said at the end, about how to make the decision to cut the string of life, reminded me of this animated short from several years ago called "The Life of Death": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofnCdC8P70g
Colette, thank you for sharing your heart with us. I am so very sorry for your loss. What a sweet, sweet friend you will always have with you…now, in your memories and in your heart.