Grace
I'm sitting outside on a bench in front of one of the restaurants where I work, listening carefully as my mom tells me through tears that Grace (my cat)'s breathing is continuously getting slower. My mom has wrapped her little body up in one of our old, bleach stained beach towels, and is rocking her back and forth, listening for the sound of purring to turn into something more concerning.
I'm thinking about the drink that I left inside so I could come out and make this call, but I'm also thinking about how glad I am to have escaped the tragic image of a cat I've had for so many years slowly slipping between life and death. Cinnamon and Bob (my two childhood dogs) both passed away when I was nowhere near them, and as much as it breaks my mom's heart to have that knowledge and to feel as if she abandoned them in their final hours, in each of these deaths I felt only relief, that I'm still young enough to have never seen death, at least not really seen it with my own eyes.
I've moved to California, and the only two pets left living in my house in Maryland are my other cat, and a fish who trekked back and forth between home and my college dorm for two years straight. (Minus the time I forgot him for two months after bringing him home for Christmas.) It's odd to think that in only two years I've said goodbye to three of my childhood pets, and each time have felt less surprised and upset, and more hardened to the reality that life will go on regardless of who dies when.
What's more surprising though is how easily I've been able to forget about the fact that my mom spent all of last night worrying over a tiny grey cat as she lay barely breathing in a small cardboard box, because as I'm on the phone with her and later with my boyfriend, all I can think about is hanging up the phone and getting back to the life that's visible right in front of me. I learned a lot in college, but perhaps one of my most memorable lessons is the fact that being away from home does almost nothing to distract you from the things and the people you can see right in front of you.
Yesterday as I hung around after getting off work to spend time with the bartender, a very drunk woman and her minorly drunk friend sat talking to each other about her relationship that was only as far away as Tahoe, a ways north in California. She pulled out her phone to showcase a text that demonstrated her boyfriend's dedication and love for her--he stated explicitly that he finds her more attractive and sexual to him than porn. How sexy is that right? At least that's what she asked me. But in all honesty, what real thing isn't more sexy than virtual reality? But I didn't tell her that. I know what it feels like to have someone far away enough that small compliments as specific and genuine as that one feel as promising and strong as wedding vows.
I'm young enough to realize that nothing is really as permanent as it seems, but also naive enough to hope that the things that feel so strongly connected to me now aren't going to change anytime soon. I've had conversations where it's so easy to be confident and broadcast the success of my long distance relationship, but I've also wondered at what life could possibly mean to do by placing a relationship so strong as this one in my life at such an awkward time.
My boyfriend will be here to visit in eight days, but when he's gone, then what? Our feelings will be strong like they were before I left, I'm confident in that, but I probably won't see him again for another two months (when I go home for Christmas) and I don't know how many more times I can explain my relationship to strangers before it starts to puzzle me the way that it puzzles everyone else.
Anyway, my cat died this weekend, and I wasn't around to support my mom as she got more upset than either she or I anticipated she would. Instead, I was in San Francisco, wondering when I'll get myself together enough to start writing and going to yoga regularly, feeling both satisfied and dissatisfied with myself for being the only one not hungover for my Sunday shift. It's strange to be floating around like this, forgetting that a year ago I had never really lived anywhere else, and hadn't completely understood what it's like to have to start almost completely over. I'm not upset at what I've done by coming out here with no real plan for the future, but sometimes I do wonder when my emotions won't be so constantly mixed together in positive and negative. I hope I start feeling a little more confident in being so undecidedly lost.
I'm thinking about the drink that I left inside so I could come out and make this call, but I'm also thinking about how glad I am to have escaped the tragic image of a cat I've had for so many years slowly slipping between life and death. Cinnamon and Bob (my two childhood dogs) both passed away when I was nowhere near them, and as much as it breaks my mom's heart to have that knowledge and to feel as if she abandoned them in their final hours, in each of these deaths I felt only relief, that I'm still young enough to have never seen death, at least not really seen it with my own eyes.
I've moved to California, and the only two pets left living in my house in Maryland are my other cat, and a fish who trekked back and forth between home and my college dorm for two years straight. (Minus the time I forgot him for two months after bringing him home for Christmas.) It's odd to think that in only two years I've said goodbye to three of my childhood pets, and each time have felt less surprised and upset, and more hardened to the reality that life will go on regardless of who dies when.
What's more surprising though is how easily I've been able to forget about the fact that my mom spent all of last night worrying over a tiny grey cat as she lay barely breathing in a small cardboard box, because as I'm on the phone with her and later with my boyfriend, all I can think about is hanging up the phone and getting back to the life that's visible right in front of me. I learned a lot in college, but perhaps one of my most memorable lessons is the fact that being away from home does almost nothing to distract you from the things and the people you can see right in front of you.
Yesterday as I hung around after getting off work to spend time with the bartender, a very drunk woman and her minorly drunk friend sat talking to each other about her relationship that was only as far away as Tahoe, a ways north in California. She pulled out her phone to showcase a text that demonstrated her boyfriend's dedication and love for her--he stated explicitly that he finds her more attractive and sexual to him than porn. How sexy is that right? At least that's what she asked me. But in all honesty, what real thing isn't more sexy than virtual reality? But I didn't tell her that. I know what it feels like to have someone far away enough that small compliments as specific and genuine as that one feel as promising and strong as wedding vows.
I'm young enough to realize that nothing is really as permanent as it seems, but also naive enough to hope that the things that feel so strongly connected to me now aren't going to change anytime soon. I've had conversations where it's so easy to be confident and broadcast the success of my long distance relationship, but I've also wondered at what life could possibly mean to do by placing a relationship so strong as this one in my life at such an awkward time.
My boyfriend will be here to visit in eight days, but when he's gone, then what? Our feelings will be strong like they were before I left, I'm confident in that, but I probably won't see him again for another two months (when I go home for Christmas) and I don't know how many more times I can explain my relationship to strangers before it starts to puzzle me the way that it puzzles everyone else.
Anyway, my cat died this weekend, and I wasn't around to support my mom as she got more upset than either she or I anticipated she would. Instead, I was in San Francisco, wondering when I'll get myself together enough to start writing and going to yoga regularly, feeling both satisfied and dissatisfied with myself for being the only one not hungover for my Sunday shift. It's strange to be floating around like this, forgetting that a year ago I had never really lived anywhere else, and hadn't completely understood what it's like to have to start almost completely over. I'm not upset at what I've done by coming out here with no real plan for the future, but sometimes I do wonder when my emotions won't be so constantly mixed together in positive and negative. I hope I start feeling a little more confident in being so undecidedly lost.
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