Today at Poets United's Pantry of Prose Magaly asks us to tell a tale of magical realism. It can be fiction or non-fiction, but must be in prose, not poetry (313 words or fewer; mine is exactly 313). I always say I am no good at story-telling – but magical realism just might work, as in my world magic is real. (So much so that I am worried this true story might not seem magical enough!)
My Last Cat
The vet carried away her small body, wrapped in a towel. The door was scarcely closed before I sobbed.
Later that evening, forcing myself to sit at my desk and work, I heard her play with her cat toys up and down the passage – rustlings, bumpings, jingling bells. (She'd gradually stopped playing with them as she got sicker.)
The following days, though, she was here only in my mind, simultaneously present and absent. Remembering her everywhere, all over house and yard, emphasised her present absence ... her ever-present absence.
I'd got rid of every sign of her – toys and bowls, carry-cage and litter tray, leftover tinned food and medications. I gave them to the vet, and to Friends of the Pound. I didn't need reminders. Mainly, I was ensuring my resolve: no more pets.
Already sick of grieving. I did some energy work.
There came a hiatus. It was horrifying! Not only was she not here, it was as if she had never been. Life flowed smoothly, efficiently. I would go for hours not missing her, not thinking of her at all. Then, when I finally did, I was beset with guilt.
And how could it be? Sure, she was a quiet, obliging cat – yet she had strong presence. How could she be so wiped from consciousness? I prayed, I begged. 'Grief is better than this expunging!'
I think now it was part of the healing, an extreme of the Denial stage of grief.
Then, one night, working at my desk, I heard the tiny sound she'd sometimes make in her throat to get my attention – from the exact spot she'd sit to do that when alive.
Immediately I was in Acceptance. So fast! (I know grief.)
I'm still sad, sometimes weepy, but it feels different now.
'I was always here,' she tells me. 'You just weren't ready to hear me speak.'