The Only Death I’ve Cried More about Is My mother’s

Funerals and wakes were a part of my life before I reached the double digits.

Thanks to my mother, the reality of death was a part of my life before I could stand in front of a casket and look down. The first things I saw were the ornate golden handles and either dark lustrous wood or a metallic finish.

I was always told the latter was more expensive.

And that’s all I had to look at. As long as I greeted the family, offered my condolences, and knelt to say a prayer, or pretended to pray, I was done.

But I couldn’t resist. I always stood on the kneeler to get a look at this lifeless body who people said looked thin, or peaceful, or like they were sleeping. I was never horrified or scared, though I never understood the point of the display.

Death didn’t shock me. People died. Everything died. I would eventually die. Best to get used to it at a young age.

I did. And I was glad.

What was often missing in those early years was the element of grief. That came later, in a big way, and not for a human.

My mother also made me a geek.

If I could collect and combine the essence that made me, me as a young child, the resulting product would have been “looks like there’s a piece missing somewhere.”

I was three years older than my younger sister, but my mother was under the impression that we should dress alike. Or rather that I should be dressed like my sister.

Add to the lack of fashion-sense long red hair and glasses, “Cousin It,” as one kid said, and you need no further description to give you a visual.

This led to bullying and social isolation and is why I become a voracious reader and letter writer. I’d often roam the schoolyard at recess, alone, counting the minutes until I could get back inside the classroom, get school over with and run home to my room.

It was a rare social occasion when I had the privilege of walking home with someone.

So when a friend interrupted dinner knocking, or meowing rather, at the front door, she instantly became my best friend. But the family and the neighborhood soon fell in love with this vivacious feline.

Part of the family

She adopted us, really. The door opened, and she regally placed one paw in front of the other, lifting her elegant tail and chin in the air, and strutted towards the kitchen.

It was a full house in those days, with five kids, two parents, and one grandma. However, this did not deter her a bit. One by one, she made her way around the table, greeting each person. When my father refused to stop eating for an introduction, she sat and stared at him until he was done.

And dad chewed his food well.

I put some of my dinner aside and fed my new pet, which she scoffed down. When she heard water filling the kitchen sink, she stopped and lifted her head to investigate. She then jumped up next to my mother and swatted the water, her nose as close as it could get without touching it.

As mom started to wash the dishes, she sat patiently watching and occasionally nudging my mother with her head. Mom fell in love.

At bedtime, she followed me upstairs and from the bedroom to the bathroom. Like the curious creature she was, she inspected the surroundings, finding the bathtub the most intriguing.

The toilet was second. Eww! Hey, it was a cat, after all. But I digress.

She stood at the back of the tub, no, there was no water in it, extended her paw, and slid down. The tub was now a cat slide.

She slept with me the entire night, curled into my legs. Then, in the morning, she walked me partway to school, visited the neighbors, and greeted me with hugs and kisses when I got home.

I named my precious new friend Queenie.

Although she lived with me, she became the neighborhood pet, a friend to my neighbor’s Dachshund, and the family clown. When mom called “dinner,” Queenie responded by jumping onto a chair at the table, her green eyes surveying the feast. Mom finally gave in and set her bowl next to my plate.

When the doorbell rang, she ran to greet our guests, and if allowed to, licked their hands. Wherever she was, she was the center of attention.

But the fantasy was short-lived, and not of my choosing or hers.

Good-bye to a best friend

Four months later, on a sunny Sunday morning, my mother called to me.

“Something’s wrong with Queenie.”

My precious girl, usually so energetic, could barely lift her belly off of the floor. She made her way to the door. Against my wishes, my mother let her out, stating that when cats are sick, grass settles their stomachs and they like to be alone.

“I’ll bring her to the vet when we get home from church,” my father promised. I nodded numbly, tears streaming down my face. But when we got home, Queenie was not waiting by the door. She didn’t come home that night. Or the night after.

My letter to Santa asked that he find and return her; I wanted nothing else. I told my mother and father and anyone else that asked me for the same. I cried for her every night.

But I never saw her alive again.

That summer, my neighbor, the one with the Dachshund, sadly reported to me that she had discovered what she believed had been Queenie under her porch. She’d crawled a mere 50 feet away to die. Alone. She might have seen us calling to her, though she probably died shortly after my mother let her out.

Would it have been better to have known all those months she was dead? Yes, because not knowing was, and is, the worst.

It was the first time I’d felt profound grief over a death. At that young age, no one close had died. Many years later, I would experience that same grief when my mother died from cancer.

But Queenie was the first.

My heart broke when Santa did not deliver that one gift I’d asked him for.

And on that summer day, it broke again.