Saturday, May 08, 2004

Exactly one year ago, I was planning BS with 2 of my PCM mates at the Starbucks in Holland Village. And on my way home, I found a sickly kitten under a block of flats, a kitten whom I took back with me in a plastic shopping bag, whose presence was greeted with slight chagrin by my Dad. A kitten whom I took to the vet in an old Nike shoebox.

Happy anniversary, Squee.

Raising you was my first brush with "motherhood". Losing you was my first real experience of death-related grief. December was truly a dark month for me, what with the unpredictable (and literally draining) crying sessions. Looking back, I must have felt trapped in a situation where I could hardly see light at the end of a long, claustrophobic tunnel. I questioned, I reasoned. Internally, I was bitterly stung by some who, with all good intentions, offered their words of sympathy or optimism. Through all that, I came to know this thing called grief, which at this stage in my life, is usually borne alone. That only time, placed in God's hands, eases the pain.

Life went on as it was meant to. It still hurt to think of you, but gradually school and other activities kept me occupied. I felt guilty for feeling relieved that there was no more need to clean up your waste as the days got busier. But I still missed you, although the feeling faded into the background as school life became routine. Only much later was I able to remember you with a smile on my face.

Why I'm directly addressing the majority of this entry to you, I have no definite answer. A kitty heaven, I do not subscribe to, nor would I have reason to believe that there is a form of afterlife for you. Perhaps it's simply because by doing so, it makes it easier for me to place my reflections into words.

I still miss you, and think back upon the kitten days with much fondness. But the pain is no longer a focus, although it does surface every now and then (rarely, and even so, in a much milder form). So perhaps this is what we call 'moving on'.

Yvonne | 12:50 AM |
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