Sunday, 17 January 2016
Missing You Always.
Monday January 11th, 2016.
12:30am. It was almost time. You were quietly rustling in your hay nest and I couldn't sleep, not wanting you to be cold or alone. I scooped you up and brought you to bed, tucking you in beside me. You listened to me talk for a few hours, letting me gently hold your little paw. I think you were doing a better job at reassuring me, when it should have been the other way around. A final few shallow breaths, one last twitch of your ears and you slipped peacefully away. We grew up together, you and I. You knew all of my secrets, patiently listening to all of the silly worries my early-twenties seemed to conjure up, always there with a reassuring nose nudge or an agreeable stomp. Oh how good you were at stomping. It's not the same here anymore and it won't ever be again, not without you. But I'm clutching on to the thought that being with you in your final moments, and I'm so thankful that they were peaceful, just the two of us, is all I could have hoped for as the end became our present, and now my past.
Oh and by the way, I just found that little clump of hay (that must have taken ages to wedge in there) under the seat of my rowing machine. And that shows just how often I've been using that lately, doesn't it? Are you really exercise guilt tripping me from the bunny afterlife?
Missing you always, little kale monster.
- One thought from each day, told in fewer than one hundred words (probably). Sometimes odd, sometimes silly, sometimes entirely nonsensical. Who knows. I don't. It's a new thing I'm trying. Except for this week. This week was difficult. The words wouldn't come. And I couldn't write anything else.