August 16, 2019
Maska is still missing. She has taken more than half of me away with her. So the roses again did not interest me. Maybe tomorrow I will go and check them out. But her sister Mishti came even closer to my face as
she settled down firmly on my chest, staring suspiciously around to check if I was going to douse her with the iodine she could do with on the last dot of red on her side. But after a while she trusted me enough to stop glaring and instead gave me that blink, so similar to her sister’s and sweetened the brand new morning: so different, so horribly new, without Maska. The polite little kitty who always moved away from the others as they pounced on breakfast, especially if it was Royal Canin that they adored. Maska would wait patiently till they finished, then come up calmly to have her peaceful breakfast without the fuss and the scuffle.
She is teaching me that sorrow has its own season and timings, and choices when it settles down in our corner of the world, to bite and smite and break down everything into bits and pieces of cement crushed beyond repair.
The coffee freshly brewed tasted perfect, like a day would, if Maska returned to greet me with her sweet blink that seemed to reach out to me from the furthest corner of the room she would be sitting in.
Yesterday the vegetable seller came carrying his simple wares – a bag full of spinach and another filled with coriander and the third stuffed with green onions. I bought small bundles of all his goods to make a healthy dinner and lunch for the cancer patient in the house.
Then I visited the tiny, shabby, dark bakery next to the electrician’s small shop. It had puffs, fruit cakes, many kinds of biscuits, and one last remaining soft bread. It was not made of whole wheat but I decided to buy it anyway for the patient who needs very soft food. The bread was soft as cotton and would make perfect sandwiches that could be soaked up with milk and protein powder so hated by the patient.
Grief too is so hateful. But it cannot be banished like cancer and has to be endured, even fed with our inner resources, like the mean, malignant guest that it is. It gobbles up the nicest treasures inside the house – the tender, costliest riches, so that you feel the slash of loss so badly, that nothing can soothe or soften your carcass lying under the horror of the brand new situation fate sent you.
One day Maska was there, blinking at you, the next day she was not! Then Mishti from somewhere, when the going got really rough and rabid inside those entrails of grief, got this very odd, heartening habit of inching up close to the soul, to speak to it in some unfathomable way, that seems to work. So the soul calms down, and decides to deal with one more Maska less day!