The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us. Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.
John Muir
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Our Milo-Schmoo-Boo-Bubba-Monkey-Doodle-Bub. Our trooper. Our Little Man. He is gone, and I am numb and weepy with the too soon-ness of it all.
On a walk to the park a month after moving into our Portland house, I chose him from a box of free kittens. Tiny and fuzzy, his pink belly a veritable flea highway, it was love at first sight, at least for us. He perplexed, infuriated, and irritated Paris, while learning everything he knew from her. I hope, in my heart of hearts, he has found her, and it is happening again.
He was our cuddle bug and heat seeker, pawing his way under the covers, lying on heat registers, bathing in the warmth of the sun. His meows were loud and demanding; barking orders to eat, share laps, to go outside, to spread a little joy. Deathly afraid of strangers, yet the man of the house when it came to keeping the neighborhood felines at bay, he gave not so much as a whoop-ti-do if he spied an opossum or mouse, lying prostrate in the sun mere inches away and yawning. Occasionally he chased squirrels (coming very close once), sadly, a few times killed birds. A cat among cats.
He was good and sweet and beautiful, a lover with dazzling eyes. Sixteen and a half! It was a very good life, one I am honored to have shared with him.
His. Of course.
Andie. With whom I care not one whit if I look like a dork.
Ann. My first best friend.
Tyler. My nephew.
Our parents.
His. Again. Of course.
Michael & Mary. Blurry, closed-eye happiness.
Rena & Jeff
Karanjit & Mandeep. Makers of our favorite Portland Indian cuisine. We miss them.
Daddy. Happy Birthday!!
Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.
Franz Kafka
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Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.
Rumi
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