I'm stuck. There it is.
On the last four repeats of my shawl, on the color navy, with a bum hand from a needle stick that turned my smallest finger blue and yellow. I can still feel the sting of it from the moment that it happened: late at night, too tired to move but the little rat needed his medicine, and so I crouched near the floor and made his nebulizer dose, but I was thinking of something else and my eyes flicked away for a second and the needle slipped, and I was surprised, but it felt more as though I were looking through glass at someone else's pain and only the throb in my hand betrayed the fact that it was my own. I bandaged my hand and cleaned up and pulled the little one out of his cage; I could feel every knob on his spine like a neat line of buttons, and when I put him on my chest he lay flat and nestled his face into the hollow of my neck and closed his eyes.
He's gone now, but the throb in my hand is still there. We buried him outside our bedroom window with a little clump of yellow flowers that somehow survived the frost. In the night I still listen for his scrabbly breath, and I hope in time that I'll remember him as he was before: fur the color of wheat, dark sweet eyes, and the feeling of his soft little body nestled up in my pajamas as I read myself to sleep. In time it will come, like spring, when the ground warms up and the sun moves in wider and wider circles around the earth.
For now I wait, but in time it will come. I have hope.
RIP Monsieur Garth 'Pooper'
Spring 2013 - December 18th, 2015
xo
c.
On the last four repeats of my shawl, on the color navy, with a bum hand from a needle stick that turned my smallest finger blue and yellow. I can still feel the sting of it from the moment that it happened: late at night, too tired to move but the little rat needed his medicine, and so I crouched near the floor and made his nebulizer dose, but I was thinking of something else and my eyes flicked away for a second and the needle slipped, and I was surprised, but it felt more as though I were looking through glass at someone else's pain and only the throb in my hand betrayed the fact that it was my own. I bandaged my hand and cleaned up and pulled the little one out of his cage; I could feel every knob on his spine like a neat line of buttons, and when I put him on my chest he lay flat and nestled his face into the hollow of my neck and closed his eyes.
He's gone now, but the throb in my hand is still there. We buried him outside our bedroom window with a little clump of yellow flowers that somehow survived the frost. In the night I still listen for his scrabbly breath, and I hope in time that I'll remember him as he was before: fur the color of wheat, dark sweet eyes, and the feeling of his soft little body nestled up in my pajamas as I read myself to sleep. In time it will come, like spring, when the ground warms up and the sun moves in wider and wider circles around the earth.
For now I wait, but in time it will come. I have hope.
RIP Monsieur Garth 'Pooper'
Spring 2013 - December 18th, 2015
xo
c.
3 comments:
A most excellent tightly packed bundle of furry poopy love. Rest well, little one.
I am so sorry you lost your little one - he had the sweetest little face. It's tough enough to lose a dear companion and even more so during the holiday time. Your readers mourn with you. Take care and may sweet memories of him bring you some comfort.
Diane
I am so sorry for your loss. They share their love unconditionally and touch our hearts with tiny paw prints that guide us to be the kind of person they know us to be. RIP Monsieur Garth 'Pooper' thank you for sharing your heart.
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