Sometimes, I got nothing.
I could write about how very sad I am that my cat is dying and that I have to somehow, somehow figure out how to make the decision of when to let him go only I don’t know how to make that decision, because how can you know? And I could write about how sweet he is, even now, when he can’t walk at all, can’t even stand up. And he struggles to get up and then falls over and even then, he still wants you to scratch his ears and snuggles up against you and purrs when you talk to him.
And I could write about how my cats have been the one constant in my life for 16 years. Nothing else, no one else has been with me through everything my life has been since that day, at my first job out of college, so wrong and right about the world at the same time, I first saw him as a tiny kitten in that cardboard box.
Or, I could tell you about everything I’ve gone through. And how I’ve become a different person. And how life has been disappointing and joyous and nothing I ever expected. And everything I’ve learned since I got him and how knowing that doesn’t make me feel wise, but instead only how much there’s left to learn and how far I still have to go.
Or how hard it is for me to think about death. And how sad I am still am about my grandparents dying. And how I realized the other day that if my father died, I likely wouldn’t ever find out.
But mostly, I think I will just sit here on my couch and pet my cat, who’s curled up in my lap, looking at me, and only wanting love.