Writings of a Teenage Girl #3

The day didn’t matter. I barely noticed the sun shining outside. Nothing mattered. On of my best friends was dead, and I was powerless to reverse what had happened. I sat in the maroon van, and as the scenery flew by outside my window a tear escaped from my eye and traced a path down my cheek. I could still see the lifeless body--warm and lying on the cold, stainless steel table at the veternarians' office. An IV was stuck in his leg…tears pouring down my face…how could he have left me? He had been the only one of my friends who wouldn’t judge me. You see, a cat doesn’t care how overweight a person was. He didn’t mind when I cried, heartbroken, into his fur. The old cat had loved me for small and simple reasons; I fed him, I loved him, and I held him. There was always room for him on my lap, and I would never run out of space for him in my heart.
Tears kept coming out of my eyes. I was a human faucet. I couldn’t describe my feelings out loud. When I got home as the afternoon dragged on, I lay across my bed with a pencil, a notebook full of clean white paper, and feelings trapped inside, wanting out. The cardboard box that had been his final resting place remained in my head as I worked; draft after draft. I wrote a poem, and loved it. Later, I wrote another. One sad, one hopeful; both about my cat, and both said exactly what I felt. I typed them up and went on with my life. I will never forget him.


~This happened in September of 2005~