It doesn’t hit you. At least, not yet..
“Jem! Jem! Jemma! He got ran over!” She came running into the living room, panting, grabbing my hand and pulling me off my grandfather’s rocking chair, that is in fact older than me. Out through the front door and towards the end of driveway. There he was. His fragile body lying on the ground. Lifeless. I stand my distance waiting for a sign. Waiting for his stomach to slowly rise.. But it never did. Thirty minutes passes by. One hour.. It began to drizzle. “Jem, it’s time to go inside now. Please? I’m sorry Jem, he’s gone.” No, he’s not. He’s laying helplessly on the ground right in front of me.. But it didn’t hit me. The next day, I’m sitting on the floor in the living room watching my daily dose of the Discovery Channel, waiting for him to come bother me. Rubbing his gentle, small body against my legs, purring, begging me to caress his face. But he never came. At a moment in time, I find myself constantly opening my Grandma’s bedroom door waiting for him to pounce out of nowhere and run in before I can even stop him. But he never came. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.. He always beats me to the table. Always sitting on my seat, rather than the other seven empty chairs. I didn’t mind it, as if he’s reserving the seat just for me. But he never came. I’m just waiting, but he never came. Loosing my appetite, I excuse myself from the table, and walk into my Grandma’s room. Slouched on her bed, I remember telling myself not to get attached, considering we weren’t going to be here long. Though my love for animals is a lot stronger than words of reassurance. I surely gave in. I got attached.
It hit me then. He’s gone. He’s really gone..
Just like that.
