Clover died one year ago this morning. The circumstances of his death were awful and traumatic. He experienced a very painful 24 hours before the fatal drip at the animal hospital stopped his heart for good.
22 days later, our baby was born. I have wondered more than once if this is what they mean by cats having nine lives. Some days the baby’s cries sound exactly like Clover’s meows. They both scavenge for crumbs on the ground. In the beginning we would slip up and call the baby “Clover” from time to time.
When I hear something rifling around a kitchen cabinet and I come around the corner to investigate I expect to find the cat inside, but instead it’s a baby.
I remember doing a lot of sobbing during the first three weeks of the baby’s life. Holding him joyfully and having full breakdowns within milliseconds. The swings from one emotion to the next defied the laws of physics. If I were to draw a venn diagram of my emotional state back then I think it would just be a big black void, the kind that looks like it was scribbled by a kindergartner.
I thought my feelings in those first few weeks with a newborn were the totally normal roller coaster of emotions one has in the early postpartum days. Now I’m wondering if the surge of grief sent me on a wildly unregulated ride through the highs and lows.
I have wondered what it would feel like to have a newborn without the layer of grief. It feels too daring to try and find out. Like I would be provoking death once again. Any sign of new life means death is waiting stage left to come in and steal the scene. “Here kitty kitty,” I would say. She would strike the moment I let my guard down.
There’s a special sadness when grief finally unclenches its claws. The full body sobs stopped showing up a while ago. It hurts to walk away from that raw grief because it means I’m even further away from you. Time continues its march and you are stuck way back there. If I can just hold onto the physical pain of losing you then maybe I won’t get so far away.
I pull up the memories of you to see if they still turn me to mush. I think of your ability to sit and high five on command. I think of that soft patch of white fur on your chest. What I miss the most are your aggressive head nuzzles. Forehead to forehead shaking our heads together. It’s our attempt to meld our minds into one so we never have to be without each other.
I still have moments when I think you are here. When a wisp of a shadow crosses my vision I look over and expect to see you walking by. The trudge away from death is like our parents always told us, “it’s walking uphill both ways in the snow.” Eventually though, you acclimate to the ascent and the cold and although it felt impossible a year ago: life goes on.
Read the original piece I wrote after Clover’s death: This is not a Birth Story.
Updates
Trying to put at least 30 minutes a day into both painting and writing no matter how much I feel resistance to doing them. One week into this experiment and it seems to be paying off.
Simultaneously, I started another bojagi project and it keeps pulling my attention away from the two things I said I would be focusing on right now. It’s nice to have this project available for when I need a little brain break though.
Recommendations
Finished Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin late last night. Give it a read!
Several years behind on this show but binge watching Barry and it’s hitting just the right mix of dark and funny right now.
Obsessing over the “artisan rolls” from Costco, they are basically ciabatta rolls. Buy them, cut in half and freeze immediately. 6 minutes in the toaster oven to revive them for the best breakfast sandwich.
Watch Kenji’s breakfast sandwich video for tips on making bodega style eggs and cheese to go with your artisan roll.
Speaking of Bodegas. When I first moved to NYC 12 years ago I splurged on a Comme Des Garçons wallet at the Opening Ceremony store (RIP). The zipper isn’t zipping anymore and I want my next wallet to last another 12 years. For my birthday my husband got me this one from Bodega.
Hmm do I need another birthday present? This monthly subscription of paper projects from Kelli Anderson is tempting.
Last thing on my wishlist right now is Novelist as a Vocation by Haruki Murakami, one of my very favorite authors. Speaking of Murakami, my friend Bailey writes an excellent Substack on artists and their pets. The Murakami piece not only shows Murakami and his cats, but also touches on how he became a writer in the first place.
This quote seems like the only appropriate way to end today, the day I will be thinking only of my cat who was very soft and warm.
"I don’t know why I’m so crazy about cats. I like how they are soft and warm, and individualistic, kind of like me." — Haruki Murakami
As alway, thanks for reading. See you next Sunday.
Bekka
All Clover photos by Brian Chu
❤️❤️❤️ Clover ❤️❤️❤️
Sweet Clover, I still think about you too!