Image of tortoiseshell cat by Didi S, Pixabay
We’ve woken every morning for the last six months to our young tom’s call to the breakfast bowl – a kind of rusty hinge squawk some mornings, a sudden loud “AWWWW!” on others.
This morning, we woke when the sun came round to our window. It’s small changes like this that bring home the fact that the house is different. He’s gone, and the house is quiet. His sister has a quiet squeak that we hear only when she is very hungry and our old tabby has an almost silent miaow that is more like a click. Neither of them are making any sound at all today.
We worked outside, in cold air and an increasing breeze. The clear sky and sunshine made it worth it. We cleared away the last twigs and branches from the area where we felled a dead elm on Saturday and stacked it on the bonfire site, enjoying the sound of birds practising their spring songs.
Tonight, it’s quiet in the house and silent outside. We enjoyed a vegetarian haggis and a tot of whisky in honour of Burns’ Night, and I stepped outside the back door. Silent all around. A candle burning on our tom’s resting place and the stars above. Life goes on for the rest of us, but it hurts.
Julia Chalkley 