We knew she was sick, she wasn’t acting right, she wasn’t drinking. But we drove far, far north, to Uncle Pete’s funeral. We couldn’t stay home for a sick cat.

She was worse when we returned.

I guess that she probably swallowed a pill I’d left, distracted, on the counter, and been casually poisoned. Curious, she’d have batted it about between her soft white paws, then choked it down in that herky jerky way that cats swallow. It’s a painful motion, like they should be coughing or vomiting, while in fact the morsel is going down the hatch.

I carried her, crying, down the dirty, damp and litter-strewn pavement of Leith Walk.

Construction pounding, traffic noises jarring, I felt her pain with each swing of the small plastic box she was bundled into. She hadn’t even fought me, as I pushed her in.

Loss is this terrible inevitability, but we don’t wanna believe it. For the most part, though stories of loss are everyday fare, our minds glance off the topic, ricocheting, not allowing us to go there, keeping us from the pain.

Sex is fun, dating was an exciting jungle and I knew how to prowl. But when I realized I’d fallen in love with John, I started to get scared. I saw it out in front of me. I was placing myself squarely back in the position to suffer loss and pain. Again.

After Max was born, John drove us home from the hospital. His life so far could be counted in hours. But I started to bawl, sobbing inconsolably, because I knew he would leave me one day. The sense of future loss was so outrageously devastating, so immediate, so visceral, I felt I was burning myself, holding it with my bare hands. It wrenched my guts.