caryn74
We Will Miss You
They insinuate themselves into our lives. They do it with a stealth and subtlety that puts ninjas to shame. One day our lives are our own, and the next we’re moving the plants out of that window because the cat likes to sleep there and we’re buying a seven dollar bottle of wine instead of a twelve dollar bottle because the dog prefers that brand of dog food over another. We’re lying on the sofa, craning our neck uncomfortably to read a book because the cat has taken up residence on our chest, and we’re getting up at an absurd hour on a Saturday morning because the dog wants to go outside…until he sees it’s raining.
They insinuate themselves into our lives and gradually, without us realizing it, our lives become dog-shaped and cat-shaped. We don’t recognize how thoroughly they’ve done it until they’re suddenly not there. We become so accustomed to the shape of our lives that the feel of the shape remains even after the dog or cat that created it is gone. We feel that absent shape the way an amputee feels a missing leg. Our lives become a bit odd and wobbly.
They insinuate themselves into our lives and it hurts when they’re gone. The pain we feel is the price we pay—and pay willingly—for the peculiar pleasure of letting them disrupt our reading and our sleep and our budget and our lives. And even though we know down at the bone that it’s worth it, it still hurts so much. Weeks later we’ll buy a new plant to put in the cat’s window (and it is still the cat’s window), but we’ll put it on the kitchen counter instead. And we’ll awake on a Saturday morning, thinking ‘I have to let the dog out’ before remembering—and then there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep. Because it still hurts, and it’s right that it does, and in a way, we’re grateful for the shape of that pain.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, greg fallis and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
