Winter came early this time. It just took a little time before the trees caught on, before the leaves began to turn, to then fall. It just took a little time for the sun to realize, to come up a little later and go down a little sooner. It just took a little time before the birds caught on, before they fled the cold for the warm southern skies. It just took a little time for the wind to realize, to turn the strong evening eastern summer wind to a gentler but colder winter breeze. Winter came early this time, back around the end of June, when Kitty died and took the warmth with him.
Its eight months now. Yet the ghost of him still sits at the top of the step, waiting for me to feed him. The ghost of him lays beside me at night, waiting for me to hug him. Waits by the door every morning, waiting for me to let him out into the world. Lies in the bright strip of sunlight in the living room, luxuriating in the warmth, showing me how wonderful life is. Wanders the neighboorhood, waiting for me to call him in. Calls to me at night, waking me from my sleep, my hand automatically seeking his warm body next to mine. Its eight months now and yet I can’t get my head wrapped around the idea that he’s dead, returned to the dust whence he came from.
From July till September, I dreaded the arrival of each Tuesday, the day he died. From October, I dreaded the coming of the twenty sixth of each month, another way that my brain has filed away as the day he died. I’d have a sense of relief that the day passed with nothing untoward happening. Shanthala had wanted to bury Kitty in our yard instead of burying only his ashes. I was afraid to. I was certain that I’d desecrate his grave in my grief some day, searching for some sign that he was once with us. Then as the first week or two went by, my brain would start the countdown, getting ready for the ritual of writing an entry, laying a wreath, sitting by the graveside for a little while.
I tiptoe around his death, around my knowledge of his death. To confront it directly is still terrifying in some incomprehensible way. Shanthala wanted to steam clean the carpets before the baby arrived. So we rented a machine from Home Depot and cleaned all the carpets. Late that night she said, “Where he died, there was a little drop of his blood. Now that’s gone too.” I had forgotten about that. I got up, wide awake now, to see if it was true. That little drop was gone, our diligent scrubbing getting rid of the accumulation of yesterdays. But the past lives on inside my head, our heads, where we visit it every now and then, greeting it with silence and tears, and occasionally with a smile.
Shanthala had said a few years back, when her grandmother had died, that her grandmother had come in her dreams and told her that she was OK. Shanthala had been able to make peace with her death after that. On our wedding anniversary this year, Kitty came in my dreams for the first time since he died. I don’t know where it was, maybe it was our house in Sunnyvale. He walked in and meowed loudly, like he did when he wanted some food or attention. I asked him what he wanted and he meowed loudly again and I followed him. That was it. I woke up a few minutes later. Last week, I dreamed about him again, two days in a row. The first night we’re all together and I’m playing with him, when he starts coughing out blood. The second night, I call to Shanthala that Kitty is back as I see a golden colored tabby walk into the house. Then I go closer to the cat and see that it is not him.
The winter months were sleepy times for him. He slept more than usual since he couldn’t go out into the rain. Some nights he’d snuggle under the sheets with me, the cold driving him there. Those were innocent times, happy times. 
The ghost of you walks right through my head
Sleepwalks at the foot of my bed
Sends old shivers over my skin
Love like that, won’t let go
It’s got some kind of a mind of its own
I can’t break out and I can’t break in — Richard Thompson
