Tate

 Tate was a rescue adopted by my daughter. Tate became my cat when she went off to college. Tate knew Andrew although they weren't close....he took little notice of her. And that brings me back around. Tate died suddenly over the course of four morning hours, last Tuesday. It happened fast but painfully, until I took her to the vet. 

I crossed over into familiar country; grief and loss spiced with, she was the last one that knew Andrew. Spiced with, Tate was my therapy cat, my lap cat, my downstairs companion, when I moved my office home over Covid. Spiced with, Tate had Diabetes; two shots a day, she was a fussy eater who I worried over, probably too much... Spiced with, to my eternal regret, she was the most ignored, and easily the sweetest, best purring member of our animal family. Spiced with she was our last cat because my husband has developed allergies. 

Grief, I can see some of your strands this time. I can touch the strands; regret, guilt, shame, sadness, finality, longing, shock and see most of the shape of you; of sadness, of loss...Is this because I'm so used to grief? So much more accustomed to it? I repeat over the body of this grief; I miss you Tate. I just miss you.