I froze, too mystified to do anything else. At last, a slight smile danced across my pursed lips. I backed away from the window, and swayed to the sweet song, the backtrack to all my dreams of you.
Swaying turned into a routine which returned to me from thin air. I waltzed to the tune, my night dress flowing along with me. For a moment, it felt like you were still within my arms, guiding me along the wooden floors of our room. The cat’s tail thumped on, and I spun myself around, holding myself with a tight squeeze as if it were you.
As the song faded into another ghost, I twirled to the window and pressed a palm against the glass, tears escaping from my squinted eyes. What more could I do except mouth, “I love you.”?
The cat circled again, and tapped its tail thrice against the window pane. And just as quietly as it had shown up, it slipped away into the warmth of the night. This night, the heaviness of you became less to bear.
Someone somewhere said grief is love that has nowhere to go. I’d like to disagree. Grief is like a black cat that finds itself wandering aimlessly on a bright summer day and creeps about, clawing at you in your darkest of hours. Even in death, the best parts of you rest within me, still as lively as I can remember.
So, though it pains me at times, I’ll watch our favorite shows and recall how your laugh never failed to be contagious. I’ll do the things we used to do, like long evening walks or newspaper sudokus. I’ll sit by the window and play that one tune, hanging onto the words and remembering how I’ve loved you.