The weight of grief

and a love letter to a very special kitty named Trixie

A furry ball, no bigger
than an orange, 
breathes and sighs and with 
tiny claws clinging tight,
purrs deep in the palm of my hand.
And I am forever smitten.

At barely eight ounces, 
it's no surprise 
you come into our lives
weighing no more than 

…a cup of sugar
…a cup of butter
…a cup of whipping cream

Sweetness personified in a sugar-spun ball of ginger fur.

At four pounds you weigh as much
as a small bag of cat food and
if I let you, you’d make quick work
of all the crunchy nuggets.

But you’re too busy chasing the sun
room to room, stopping
every now and then 
to give one of us 
a love bite or
a tip of the nose kiss,
before racing up the stairs at breakneck speed 
to get nowhere fast.

It’s no wonder that
where you are, joy quickly follows.
Even if you always seem slightly
offended when we laugh.

Somehow, you begin to think 
that you’re a cat
that thinks it’s a dog
that thinks it’s a human.

You greet us at the door,
follow us from room to room,
imperiously waiting for us to sit 
so you can take
pride of place on our laps. 

Where we are, you are too.

At nine pounds, and
not one ounce more,
you’re fully grown, 
although I’d swear
you’re a kitten still.

It seems fitting you’re the same 
weight as a medium-sized rug,
your second favourite lounging spot.

You’d think by now your
routine would be fully set,
days ordered like clockwork.

But the palace that is your domain 
has infinite mysteries 
and over the space of time 
and weeks and years, 
you determine to find them all.

It becomes a favourite parlour game,
this finding you.
And when we finally spot you, 
it’s not in a great 
expanse of space.

But…tucked in a blanket,
wedged between books and baubles,
squeezed in a basket,
lounging in the bathroom, 

and best of all, somewhere warm
and dark and
safe.

Now you’re six and half pounds.
You’re a sweet tired old lady 
of a kitty, that weighs 
just about as much 
as one fifth
of a gold bar.

But you’re infinitely more precious.

And the weight of saying 
goodbye
crushes us like
a million gold bars.

Nineteen years…a lifetime 
that in human years 
is fit for royalty.

And you, duty-bound to the last,
love us with your button face, 
your gentle purrs, your 
beautiful eyes.

Sweet dreams, sweet Trixie…
the queen of our hearts. 
The weight of your loss will 
never leave us 
but your spirit will keep us 
always buoyant.