Kitty loved to box himself in. Any old box would do, no matter how small it was. We first got wind of his penchant for these boxes when we purchased hiking shoes, a few months after he came to be with us. We had left the shoe box open, the shoes out already when we saw him plop into the open box. Kitty was always a rather large cat and we watched, amused, thinking he wouldn’t fit into such a box. But fit he did. No matter how small the box was, he’d figure out a way to fit in. Smaller boxes would bulge outwards, the sides straining to hold together. As he got a little fatter during his time with us, especially as he aged and became less active, it’d be a real comical sight, this large cat, fitting himself into small boxes.
Seeing he loved boxes, we bought him a little box that we thought he’d sleep in. He never did sleep in it when we were in bed, using it only in the afternoons or times when we were up and about. When we were in India, when we couldn’t let him out of the house on his own, we used one of the boxes to place by a window sill, so he could look out. He spent many hours, especially during the day when Shanthala was away at work, lying in the box, his chin propped on the side, looking out.
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you – Simon & Garfunkel
William Zinsser wrote, “Writers are the custodians of memory”. I find comfort in that statement, that in my writing, I preserve Kitty and his time with us. It’s been 16 months since he died, and still there hasn’t been a day that I haven’t thought of him, at least once. Since Maya’s time with us, I’ve felt the ache reduce, but its a scar that may never heal. Yesterday night, Shanthala and I were watching a movie, “Accidental Tourist” (recommended), about a couple who’ve grown estranged after their 12 year old son is shot to death. It’s a funny movie about serious themes including the a minor aside about the different ways in which different people grieve. The pain of Kitty’s death came back instantly, razor sharp, in the scene where William Hurt goes to identify the body of his dead son. I remembered Kitty lying in that corner of our bedroom as he breathed in his last breath. Something inside me still shatters every time I think of that scene.
Last year, around this time, Shanthala suffered premature contractions. There was a real chance that Maya would not happen. I remember calling a friend after Shanthala fell asleep. I cried that nothing has been going right for us since Kitty died. Since that time, the sun has come out and stayed out.
After he died, his remains came back, in a little box. Even in death, he found a way to box himself in.
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