This is not a post.

I wonder how many more times I can post something about how I’m still alive and just not writing before they send out a search party.

I really am still alive. I swear. It’s just… I can’t really write. Writing makes everything too real. If I write about it, then it won’t be just my imagination that his little cat body isn’t curled on the pillow where he should be this time of night. If I admit in print that he isn’t perched on my neighbor’s fence marrowing at me when I come home from work every day, I’ll have to start buying half the cat food. And I don’t know if I’m ready to acknowledge the fact that both my heart and Ozzie’s step quicken whenever we see what we think might be our cat in the distance, until we get close enough and I have to remind Oz that we’re not going to find him…

I buried him in a nice spot. He’d like it under the lemon tree. And I do believe in cat heaven. But this time of night, when I’m tucking myself into bed, I still find myself searching around for his snuggly cream filling to pull to my face like a pillow. I wake myself up, groping around in the dark for him, then sobbing as it hits me fresh. I find myself apologizing to him again and again in the middle of the night, as though if I just say it enough times, I’ll wake up to find him sitting on my head, all four paws tangled in my hair. It never works.

Like I said– I can’t really write. Not yet.

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