PART 2 — The Crying Cat Who Taught Us What Grief Really Looks Like.
Three weeks after the crying stopped, I got a picture that should have been the end of the story.
It wasn’t.
The gray tabby was asleep on a faded sofa, one paw stretched into a patch of afternoon sun, like she had finally decided the world might not be finished with her after all.
The woman had written only one sentence under the photo.
She follows me from room to room, but only when I’m sad.
I stared at that message for a long time.
Not because it was sweet.
Because it felt true in a way that made my chest ache.
People like to talk about animals as if they’re simple.
Hungry. Tired. Scared. Friendly. Mean.
Easy labels. Easy boxes.
But I had spent enough nights in that building to know how often we use simple words because the real ones ask too much of us.
Grieving asks too much.
It asks time.
It asks patience.
It asks people to stand near pain they cannot immediately solve.
And most people, even good people, don’t like that.
I printed the picture and tucked it inside the front cover of her file.
I thought maybe I needed to keep it there for myself.
