That Boston life packed up so small
We would have attended the unveiling for Autolycus if he had been buried in a cemetery with a bronze marker, not a cairn at the foot of the forsythias where the small glacial stones have been piling all year and stray mint and rhubarb growing. It doesn't feel like a year. It doesn't feel like enough time to accustom to the absence of cat. All the rituals of our days are changed and remain so. We carry his memory with us, but I would rather carry the cat himself, all sixteen of his front claws hooked on my shoulder, dust-pink pads held skin-to-skin, seal-black ears alert, sincere lime-green eyes wide as the world.


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I had trouble all year believing in last year and I still do.
*hugs*
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*hugs*
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*hugs*
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I agree, it never does.
*all the hugs*
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*hugs*
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*hugs*
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*hugs*
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*hugs*
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*hugs tight*
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*hugs*
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raises a light to his memory
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*hugs*
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P.
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His proud pigeon breast!
*hugs*
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I am wearing my T-shirt with his name on it.
*hugs*
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Sending love <3
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Thank you for that herbal language.
Sending love
*hugs*
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It doesn't.
*hugs*
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*hugs*
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*hugs*