Home feels emptier now. Not because your cat box and extra supplies are gone, or that your pillow and food dish are put away—it’s palpable. Where you brought quiet presence, I find nothing. You aren’t holding space for my return or breathing the house alive when I am away. How does the departure of eight pounds of flesh and bone leave a home so changed?
I miss you, Francine.
I don’t hear your signature thump upon dismounting chairs and beds or detect the delicate patter of feet on a stairway descent. You don’t follow me room to room or lap-lock me to a chair. Enthusiastic mealtime—gone! Theatrical entrances–gone! Feline curiosity and disdain—gone!
Absence greets me at the door and follows me through rooms now stale and still. Evenings loom darker, silence hangs heavier. No scampering in fits of play, no one to pet and carry. No one to groom me with a raspy tongue or keep me warm at night.
I miss you, Francine.
Waves of affection rouse my senses and you return, momentarily. I hear your voice, see your face. But disembodied memory—vivid at first—turns delicate over time. Your image is slower to appear, less inclined to linger. My lap remains un-warmed … forgetfulness creeps in.
Still, a larger heart remains.
Meet me there, Francine … meet me in my heart!