Christmas, Loss, and Frosty

It’s January 1st. Time to strike the Christmas set. Time to strip the house of all of our little gee-gaws and doo-dads — the reindeer mugs, the Christmas Tree candles, the holiday tablecloth, the Christmas cards from our near-and-dear who are scattered hither and yon all over the world. Finally, it is time to take down the tree.

Every year when we take down the tree, I am filled with sadness. There is something so utterly poignant about denuding this beautiful, well — this creature, who has been a most hospitable house guest for the past three weeks. She has silently endured the indignity of being festooned with ornaments and strung with colored lights. She has endured countless hours of my playing the Beach Boys’ Christmas album. She has spread her branches like outstretched arms welcoming our brightly colored packages. She has allowed our cat, Henry, to sleep under her wings, peacefully enjoying her delightful aroma of earth and pine. She has weathered the unending hours of having the fireplace blazing only four feet away, literally sucking the life out of her by depriving her of her moisture. She has beamed her beauty for all, including our little neighbor, Stone, who came over frequently during the holiday season, I suspect, at times, just to feast his eyes on her. But now, it is time for her to leave us.

This year, for the first time, I actually cried as we undressed her. I had thought that this year we would be more lighthearted when it came time to say goodbye. We had made a point this year of spending lots of time with her and enjoying her company. And she never disappointed. So I thought when the first of the year rolled around, we would be able to part company with a sense of completion.

But this is the year that I lost my mother. Whatever that something is we feel when we have to let someone or something go, it was especially hard for me this year. The fact that we had tried so hard to honor her and treat her with the respect and admiration she deserved did nothing to ameliorate the sorrow of her loss. Am I talking about the tree or about my mother? For today, anyway, it feels like it’s all the same. Loss is loss. The harder I try to grab life with both hands and hold on tight, the more I feel it slipping away from me and vanishing into the Great Beyond.

But part of the joy of life, and of Christmas, is that it is not permanent. It has its season, and then it’s gone. But, as with just about anything in life I can think of, it reappears at some point, maybe different in some aspects, but also, thankfully, very much the same in others. Every year I say, “This is the most beautiful Christmas tree we’ve ever had!” — and every year it is true.

So now, I have dried my tears and just about put away Christmas for the year. I will miss our lovely green friend. I will try to remember the parable of “Frosty The Snowman”, according to the Beach Boys: “But he waved goodbye saying ‘Don’t you cry, I’ll be back again some day!’”.

NATASHA

You may not want to hear from me today. My head is muddled. I have so much on my mind that there is almost too much to write.

Yesterday morning we lost our dear, sweet little Natasha. Our angel girl kitty. For anyone who has ever been through it, no words are necessary to describe our grief. For those of you who have not, no words are sufficient.

I miss her every time I look at our bed. Our bed was Natasha’s domain. She spent every possible moment holding court there. Sleeping there. Dreaming there. Cuddling with us. Banishing her little brother, Henry. When I was sick or discouraged, she was “Nurse Natty”. She would just appear and come to wherever I was. She would sit on me and purr endlessly until either she or I had to get up. She had magical healing powers when she did that. Natasha was regally beautiful. She commanded respect. She had her own kind of intelligence. She could be very funny. When Art came in to the bedroom, she would flirt with him, rubbing up against him, nuzzling him. Then she would flop down on the bed. Art would say, “Come on, Natty. Show us what the girls in Hollywood do!”. And Natty, on cue, would roll over on her back, paws splayed, showing off her perfect white tummy for all the world to see. God, we would laugh so hard. And I think she was laughing with us.

Many times I dreamt that Natasha could speak English. I would dream that she was standing at our back door, yowling to go out. I would hear, “Meow! Meow! Meow!”, and I would stand there, helpless. Wondering why she was crying. And she would say, “MEOW! MEOW! ME! OUT!!! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you speak English?”. I am convinced that she understood every word we said. Of course, we struggled for the most rudimentary understanding of her feline language. I’m sure it was a constant source of amusement to her. Stupid humans.

For fourteen wonderful years, Natasha graced our home. She enriched our lives. She was our friend, our child, our guardian angel, our baby girl. I hope with all my heart that she is, not only finally cured of that nasty cancer, not only out of pain, but triumphant, soaring, blissful, at peace. Finally, our delicate little one is in perfect health. I envision her in a place where every iota of her beauty, her generosity of spirit, her sweetness, her grace, is reflected back through a Benevolent Being. I would like her to be in a world where she has access to unlimited catnip, beautiful birds that she can chase down who magically resurrect themselves for the next chase, endless warm summer sun baths. Perhaps she is playing with Charlie, our partly feral grey and white kitty with whom Natasha was raised. (They were polar opposites in personality, but they loved each other). I see her surrounded by her littermates and her Cat Mother/Father. I see her in fields of sweet fragrant flowers that tickle her nose, and a protective mantle of love that enfolds her and protects her for eternity.

And Art and I will join her there some day. We will all be happily reunited. And finally, we will all speak the same language.