The Dying Time

Dawn on a grey day

The second day of winter sees a death in the clan home. This morning I found our orange tabby, Anders, unresponsive and with no pulse. He was still warm, so I imagine he died barely an hour or so before I prepared to walk out the door. My hands still hold the tang of the red earth, my shoulders ache from the shoveling to prepare a proper place. I light candles and place them in the lanterns hanging from the branches of the tree. The tree stands like a silent guardian over the grave, were I give of green grass and leaves, the color of the Goddess of Cats. I say a pray, ask the Green Eyed One to open her paws to her flame furred child. The earth is the color of old blood as I smooth it back into place, patting it down until my palms are caked with dirt. Its my element, so to have it smeared from nails to wrist is no cause for concern. I place stones and bricks atop the grave, pressing them hard into the soft, cool ground.

I found Anders in a parking lot, alone and very small. I took him to clan home, to feed and care for this little orange orphan who needed me. My only comfort is that his life would have been cut short much sooner and uglier had I not acted.

It is only a small comfort, as I watch the fire dance in the lanterns and my eyes fill with tears.

Death is a part of the cycle, another turn of a wheel to give way to yet another. May his next story and mine, hold sweeter tales to tell.