My friend’s kitten died last night.
It was four weeks old – probably just too young to be away from its mama.
I held it for twenty minutes in the morning after walking the dog.
Its little voice had deepened since I heard it last Thursday.
It clearly wasn’t well.
Its energy was gone.
It didn’t even know I was in the room until I touched it.
Poor little thing.
It burrowed itself between my neck and hair and stayed there as long as I let it.
I wish I’d had more time, but it wasn’t my kitten. It wasn’t my house. It wasn’t my place.
When my friend called later to tell me it had died, I wasn’t surprised.
I feel sad for my friend and her husband and children.
It’s a rough time for them to lose a pet, even a stray they’d only known for a week.
Last night as I was getting into bed, I accidentally tipped my grape leaf music box up on its side.
The daintiest little notes of O Sole Mio tinkered their way to my ears.
Somehow that seemed fitting for my somber mood.
The music box sat on the mantle in our living room when I was growing up.
I was always fascinated by it.
Now, whenever I hear it, I float instantly to a weird melancholy space between the lightness of childlike wonder and the heavy reality of my father’s absence.
I don’t think I realized until I heard it that I was so depressed about that little kitten.
I couldn’t save it.
That’s just how I felt about my father, my friend and cats of my own.
I couldn’t save them.
But today, I’m trying to let that go.
I had two good days getting the little boy off to school this week and then this morning there was a meltdown about socks.
Socks. And shoes.
None of them were right.
After an agonizing fifteen minutes of upset in the car, I sent him to school in sandals.
I’m tremendously sad about the kitten, but I have to let it go.