12/12/20-6/17/23
Jun. 19th, 2023 07:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
uri9158I loved you so much. I wanted to hold you in my hand forever. You were so small, so soft, so perfect.
When I brought you home, swaddled gently in blue cloth, I laid you on the floor. I went to grab scissors, paint, and paper. I only wanted a whisker. Just one, salt and pepper. My hand shook and I clipped them all.
I cried because you still needed those. I cried and my tears beaded off your perfect fur. I cried because you loved grooming your coat. It was so soft. The softest thing I'd ever touched. The vet said you were so soft.
I tried to clip your fur, but the hairs were so fine and light. I couldn't see them. And I didn't want to ruin you. A couple hairs wouldn't do you justice anyway.
I took a paintbrush, the smallest I owned. I covered your paws in black gouache and pressed them to the paper. The prints left behind were all smudgey. I cleaned your paws because I didn't want the paint to make you sick. And I didn't like how it made your pink skin all black. It never looked like that.
Weeks before you were even sick I thought about preserving you forever. I would buy chemicals that would freeze you in time. Your fur would never grow ragged. Your whiskers could stay long. I could look at your paws whenever I wanted.
But I realized that was unfair. You'd still be dead. You wouldn't be able to comb through your fur or twitch your whiskers. Or run on a great big wheel.
So I dug a hole in the front yard, big and wide enough so you'd have room to stretch your legs. You hated small spaces.
Your wooden house was the coffin. I lined the bottom with shredded tissue like how you did once. It all still smelled like you. I gave you cherries, lettuce, and a strawberry. I cried because I had never given you a cherry before.
I wrapped you in the blue cloth I brought you home in. You felt warm and limp, still. It felt wrong to cover you in dirt, but I did, gently and with my hands.
I cleaned your cage later today. I couldn't stop moving. You were gone, but I still needed to care for you. I found your sand bath. It still had dips and dunes from where you walked. I didn't dump it out.
I'm in bed now. I stopped moving and now all I can do is cry. I miss you. I want to dig you up and hold you so you never disappear. I want you to eat from my hand again. I want to hear the sound of your wheel again. I want to pick you up and hold you even though you don't like it and I want to kiss you on the forehead, right where the little white star is and I want you to make those little peeping noises you make and I want to cry and rub my tears into your fur knowing you'll clean them out. I want to wail at 2 am in the morning like I'm dying. I want to scream like its the end of the world.
When I brought you home, swaddled gently in blue cloth, I laid you on the floor. I went to grab scissors, paint, and paper. I only wanted a whisker. Just one, salt and pepper. My hand shook and I clipped them all.
I cried because you still needed those. I cried and my tears beaded off your perfect fur. I cried because you loved grooming your coat. It was so soft. The softest thing I'd ever touched. The vet said you were so soft.
I tried to clip your fur, but the hairs were so fine and light. I couldn't see them. And I didn't want to ruin you. A couple hairs wouldn't do you justice anyway.
I took a paintbrush, the smallest I owned. I covered your paws in black gouache and pressed them to the paper. The prints left behind were all smudgey. I cleaned your paws because I didn't want the paint to make you sick. And I didn't like how it made your pink skin all black. It never looked like that.
Weeks before you were even sick I thought about preserving you forever. I would buy chemicals that would freeze you in time. Your fur would never grow ragged. Your whiskers could stay long. I could look at your paws whenever I wanted.
But I realized that was unfair. You'd still be dead. You wouldn't be able to comb through your fur or twitch your whiskers. Or run on a great big wheel.
So I dug a hole in the front yard, big and wide enough so you'd have room to stretch your legs. You hated small spaces.
Your wooden house was the coffin. I lined the bottom with shredded tissue like how you did once. It all still smelled like you. I gave you cherries, lettuce, and a strawberry. I cried because I had never given you a cherry before.
I wrapped you in the blue cloth I brought you home in. You felt warm and limp, still. It felt wrong to cover you in dirt, but I did, gently and with my hands.
I cleaned your cage later today. I couldn't stop moving. You were gone, but I still needed to care for you. I found your sand bath. It still had dips and dunes from where you walked. I didn't dump it out.
I'm in bed now. I stopped moving and now all I can do is cry. I miss you. I want to dig you up and hold you so you never disappear. I want you to eat from my hand again. I want to hear the sound of your wheel again. I want to pick you up and hold you even though you don't like it and I want to kiss you on the forehead, right where the little white star is and I want you to make those little peeping noises you make and I want to cry and rub my tears into your fur knowing you'll clean them out. I want to wail at 2 am in the morning like I'm dying. I want to scream like its the end of the world.