Losing Poppi

I want to lift you up to my heart, my girl, as I did when you were alive; to hold you, and stroke your soft, silky head, and hear you purr. After a little while, you’d want to be put down, so I would do that, and scratch behind your ears as you lay on one of your high perches. They were all around the house. Through you, I discovered that Burmese cats love to climb and be high. It was easier for me, too; I didn’t have to stoop to caress you. When I was done – when you began to fall asleep, or I felt the need to attend to my tasks – I would show you my open palm, then close it deliberately, twice. I taught you that as a signal to say, ‘We’re done for now. See you later.’ You were profoundly deaf, so I needed to find visual ways to communicate. A friend once witnessed you respond to this hand gesture with a long, slow blink of your eyes … the cat signal for ‘I love you.’

We loved each other. And now you are gone. Never was a cat of mine so thoroughly gone! Others did little hauntings for a while after they died – such as my first cat, Guinivere, lying on the clean clothes in the ironing basket (which she was not allowed to do in life); the kids and I caught frequent glimpses. Or my last before you, Selene, chasing her toys along the passage with familiar little rustlings and tinklings, after she’d died and the toys were put away. But you – you were gone.

For the first month I spring-cleaned the house like mad. Not before time! I didn’t quite finish the job, but I got most of it done. ‘Keep busy’ has always been my strategy for dealing with grief.

The next month was the complete opposite. I sank into inaction, lethargy, possibly depression. I sought escape, into fairly mindless romance novels and Netflix shows. I didn’t want to be with my own thoughts. All kinds of things that needed doing got ignored. Also I wept.

Now it's the third month. Finally, I know what to do with my grief. I write.