I thought, “It’s spring. I think I’ll do it this year. Seamus will like it.
I started to even go down the path of why I haven’t planted it for all these years: He’d be more encouraged to eat my house plants down to the nubs. I’d have to find a pot, find some dirt, mess with all the water and so on.
Then I remembered. My cat is gone. I took him to the vet for his last time this week, bawling as he always did when I put him in the carrier with the handy opening at the top and then settling down as we waited in the vet’s office, purring in my arms to the very end.
I’ve noticed two painful parts in my last few years walking with grief.
First, I run into this moment like the cat grass. I know he’s gone. But I forget. And I think for a moment of something I’ll do with the missing person or critter.
Then I remember. Like stepping off the stairs to a step that doesn’t exist, I get a jolting falling feeling and the ache opens up again.
On top of that, I hurt for the grass he will now never get to eat because I never got off my duff to grow it for him. This happens with every person or critter I lose, too. No matter how I try to live each day to the fullest, say what I need to say to those I love and do what I need to do for them, I always fall short.
I guess it’s human. I guess it’s a part of life that is sometimes losing. But I don’t like it. I wish I had grown the stupid grass.