Farewell Little Buddy

— Vicki L. Harvey

I almost stepped on you last night
as you slept in the landing outside
my room.
I see your shadow on the other
side of the shower door
as I have seen it so many times
before.
Whenever I want to take a
bath I have to shut the
bathroom door . . .
It terrifies you to see me in
the water.
I hear you purring as I lay
in bed late at night, giving me
the sense that all is ok in
the world.
You fall asleep on my arm
and if I move away you
nip my arm in displeasure.
I hear you coming down the
stairs to join me for our morning
ritual of coffee and writing,
but when I looked to the side
of me where you always sit
it is empty.
I remember the time you
tried to attack my yarn and
your leg became caught and
the needles chased you up
the stairs.
I see you sitting in front of me
lifting your paw ever so gently
not wanting to be ignored.
I saved your two Bullwinkle toys,
chewed and ratty, reminding me
of how much you loved them.
I still look for you as I open the
door arriving home from work
only to remember you are not
there.
As I carry my groceries into the
house I worry that you will slip
out the door – but you won’t.

The water bowls do not need
fresh water.

The meds are no longer needed.

The spiders have returned.

The pain comes from out of
nowhere.

I have learned to breathe through
it.

One thought on “Farewell Little Buddy

  1. Vicki, you have described so vividly that which so many of us have experienced. The last line is so powerfully crafted.

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