Not quite a week since Mica took The Long Step. I can't stop thinking about her.
I listen for her. Her constant, nagging, bone-shivering wail ended Tuesday, but I wake up in the middle of the night, straining to hear it.
I pull food out of the refrigerator and cry when I don't have to lock her in the bathroom to keep her from eating it before I can dish it onto my own plate.
I come home and wonder why I don't have to clean up the undigested contents of her ailing stomach.
You might think I should be relieved about all this.
I'm not. Not yet.
You see, I seem to live in a fantasy world where I can heal all hurts and solve all the problems plaguing my charges. I seem to think I have the power to extend life beyond its natural bounds simply because I wish it to be so.
I don't have that power, no matter how much or how often I wish I do.
I can't keep a cat alive. I can't stop death from taking my friends one by one, not even if I had all the money or medicine in the world.
I can't stop missing them when they're gone, even if they are annoying, sickly, or troublesome in their old age.
I loved Mica. She wasn't always troublesome or sick or annoying. We had many good times known only to us.
I'm so sorry, my friend. If I had the power, I would give up some of my life to have kept you here.
You know I would.
Please forgive me.
Please let me go.