Grief Comes in On Little Cat Feet...

Apologies to Carl Sandburg. 

George was a stomper. Nine pounds on a good day and STOMP STOMP STOMP he would come down the hallway. Gracie who was 15 pounds on a good day in the other direction was light on her feet. Sampson who was closer to 20 didn't make a sound. Tig, also 9 pounds, STOMP STOMP STOMP. Tux at 11 pounds can be a little of both. Not a stomper like Tig, more of a pitter patter, but can also just appear without any noise at all. The smaller the cat the louder the walk, in our experience. 

So the idea of the fog coming in on little cat feet has always made me smirk. STOMP STOMP STOMP the fog rolls in...STOMP STOMP STOMP it rolls out. I think he had Sampson and Gracie in mind, not Tig and George. 

But grief? Now grief comes in on little cat feet. 

At first it stomps in and will. not. be. ignored. It knocks all of your shit over and demands all of your attention. PAY ATTENTION TO ME.

Later it just shows up randomly. Creeps in and settles down without you noticing. Softly nudges you to get your attention, then knocks all of your shit over. 

Three years after Mom's death and I've made peace with the cat. Mostly. Sort of. I know the times it's guaranteed to show up. When I need to get all of the delicate things down from the shelves and just get ready. August. August is a careful month now. 

Eleven years after Dad's death and the cat can surprise me still, but it's less prone to knocking shit over. Now it's more of a let me settle down here next to you for awhile feeling. We are quiet together for a while then it saunters off to do its own thing.

Two years after Ann's death and sometimes I forget about the cat. I forget that she's gone. I think, oh we need to call Ann this week; it's been too long. Oh...wait. We were in that completely surreal pandemic time when she died and there is a part of my brain that still doesn't quite accept that she's gone. Which is weird, and hard. And very prone to stomping cats. 

Fifteen years after Jack's death and the cat doesn't knock things over, doesn't stomp around, doesn't demand attention. I can go find the cat if I want to, but it doesn't seek me out much. We've definitely made peace, that cat and I. 

There are others that have their own cats. People I've lost either through death or just death of the relationship. Each one having a cat to call their own. Stompers and silent movers. Ones I've made peace with and ones that can still knock all of my shit over when given the chance. I'm sure it's not what Mr. Sandburg had in mind when he wrote his poem, but my version works for me. 

Grief comes in on little cat feet. 

STOMP STOMP STOMP