Saturday

Saturday morning, the reality after Friday night. I wake up to the sounds of dripping water. It reminds me of my bed at home — the tin roof that woke me with its steady melody. I lay in my best friend’s bed and listen, picturing my room thousands of miles away. The sunlight would be pouring in through my blinds, lighting up the golden fur of my feline friend, her purr a loud snoring sound — harmonizing with the drip on the tin roof.

Drip, drip, drip… Fuck!

I jolt upwards, convinced that I had spilt my glass of water all over Kerry’s bed. I pat furiously and feel nothing but linen. I lay down again, staring at the glass of water, convinced that I was imagining its watery contents. My hand rests on the linen, reminding myself that it is dry.

“If you see this can you please give me a call,” texts my mother. My first thought is that I am definitely in trouble; she probably found my journal — a belonging I hope no one reads. I call, and she tells me that my feline friend of 14 years, Phoebe, has been put down.

“Let yourself feel this one,” my mother tells me. “Don’t shut yourself off again. You’re allowed to be sad.” I immediately wipe away a foreign watery substance dripping down my cheek — dripping like the tin roof, but without the melody. I smile at my mother. Old habits are like a close companion. I talk her through the pain of saying goodbye to yet another family member. I smile and remind her of the warm memories. Smile, smile, smile, and smile some more.

An hour later a sunflower is tattooed onto my ribs. It blooms next to my heart, as a reminder of the father I lost. An hour after that I google illustrations of cats and imagine her walking towards the sunflower next to my heart.