FEEDING THE CAT

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's gray fuzzball, Miss Kitty.

Two years ago, Grammy was with us, preparing Thanksgiving dinner. Grammy was so happy that Thanksgiving, her counters covered with food and her kitchen filled with family. So happy, so tired, so frail. She stumbled when she walked, leaned long against the counter, her skin deeply jaundiced, but smiling such a big smile the whole long, sweet, exhausting day.

Two years + a week ago, Grammy was gone.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat.

I've walked next door often over the past 20 years. To use Grammy's washer when my washer was broken, to pick up the leftovers Grammy cleaned out of her fridge but couldn't bear to throw away, to shell pecans or work a jigsaw puzzle together, to check the mail and feed the cat on the rare occasions when Grammy and Granddad went out of town.

During nursing school, I walked next door daily - to use the internet for online classes, to eat caramel corn and watch TV and pretend like some part of my life was "normal," to cry countless tears of frustration and exhaustion. Nursing school was traumatic. Grammy was a good listener.

The last year - the very last year - I walked next door multiple times a day. Granddad was declining. I would get the call: "Are you home? I need help." "Yes, I'll be right over." Dying and death are such peculiar things. Caring for Granddad that last year, Grammy and I cried and laughed and talked much of the ridiculousness of this life.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat. Grammy has been gone for two years, but the cat is still here and still needs to be fed.

I go an entire day now sometimes without missing Grammy. Other days, I feel her absence keenly, and my chest hurts and the tears start again.

Days like today.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat, but Grammy wasn't there.