We got her as a stray when I was nineteen or so. She was pregnant, and ended up birthing three of my other cats. She outlived them. She was good, kind, and loving. She was around during my twenties, during the periods when I couldn’t get myself to leave my bedroom, and she was around during my thirties when I returned home exhausted from my job. Just four or five days ago she just stopped being herself, and a blink later she was dead.

Words are distractions; the truth is that nothing we can think or say is going to stop the joy and love in our lives from eventually withering and dying.

Still, I struggle to figure out if I have something more meaningful to get out of this other than sadness. I could tell myself that I’ve posted this photo to remember her, but the truth is that I barely remember her already. Just a few two-seconds-long sequences of her looking at me from my bed, or asking me food from my plate. The weight of her limp body in my arms is the last thing I’m going to remember of her. She had a good, long life, certainly better than mine, if that counts for anything. But when years from now I look at photos of her, like it happens with all my other dead cats, the notion that I ever interacted with her won’t seem real anymore. And I will need to carry the weight of this sadness for the rest of my life. What was the point? It’s almost pure faith what you need to hold in your heart to believe that all of this counts for something.

Ever since my twenties, whenever I thought about killing myself, the thought came to mind that I couldn’t do that to my cats. I imagined them looking around for me, like they looked around for the other missing cats over the years. Soon enough I won’t feel responsible for anyone anymore, and maybe then it will finally be time to move on.