Shelby just died.
But still we check out side.
Still we hope in vain that maybe…
… Just maybe…
He’ll come home.
In a car accident, he died.
Head smashed, velvet red. Lying. So still. By that road I walk along almost every day.
So still.
I remember how we teased him. Me and mum.
‘That silly cat!’ we’d say as he skipped over the ants. Flicking his paws. Meowing every time one crawled onto him.
We were happy.
But now he’s gone.
And he’ll never come home.
But maybe… just maybe… if I stand by that front door long enough, he might.
Him and his little stumpy tail.
Just maybe, he’ll turn up. He’ll come greet us again with his silly little yowl. And he’ll sit down by the door. Tartly waiting.
Waiting…
His fur still sticks to my bed covers. Little strands of brown and white tabby hair. Tickly and itchy. They made me sneeze.
But they were soft.
His cheeks were chubby. Little firm balls of meat, flesh and fur. He was life. But now he’s gone.
So fragile.
Mimi. His mother.
We cried for him. And for her.
And for each other.
Me and mother.
But now he’s gone.
Buried.
Gone.
But I still run to that door when I hear something move.
I know he’s dead.
But I still answer to that door.
Gazing…
…searching…
…Hoping.
That it’s nothing but a bad dream.
