I absolutely adored Orange; not the colour, the cat.
It would probably be best to start from the beginning.

Sometime in the early part of the year, I decided I wanted a cat. You could call it a craving for companionship, or maybe a longing for control and calm. I wanted something to anchor me : something living that needed me back.

Cats are low-maintenance and clean up after themselves, which was enough motivation for me to get one.
The first day I brought Orange (as I affectionately named him) home, he hid under my bed trembling and wouldn’t come near me. If you’ve heard a cat wail, you probably know how similar it can sound to baby. I found myself in a game of hide and seek with him as I desperately tried to get him to come out.

The next morning, he climbed onto my bed and played with my curtains as though we were old friends. My relief was short-lived. By afternoon, he was hiding from me again, and I silently prayed, Please love me.

It seemed my prayers were answered, or perhaps time simply did its work.
By the third day, Orange allowed me to pet him. He was small, his orange fur interspersed with a few patches of white ; a gorgeous little thing. Curious. Warm. Present. He had a habit of getting so close to my face, sometimes rousing me from sleep.

As the days went by, he would eagerly wait for me to feed him, purring as he brushed its body against my legs.

I loved Orange. He eased the overbearing thoughts that often consumed me.
I loved the pulsating rhythm of his body whenever he got close to me and how he would gently knead me with his paws. I found that so comforting. Slowly, the house (my heart) began to beat differently : softer, alive. There were times when the ache pushed through, but then I would get home and see Orange, and then, in that instance, it was just about him.

He would invite himself onto my bed whenever I let him in and then gaze at me lovingly (I’d like to believe). Later, he would curl up on my blanket-covered legs.
Sorry to anyone out there who loves me, but this cat truly made me feel loved, and he didn’t have to utter a single word.

 I returned from a trip one weekend only to realize my beloved cat wasn’t in the house.
I searched every room, then the neighbour’s yard. I called out, circled the neighbourhood, and searched every corner, but he was nowhere. The heartache moved in again, wearing Orange’s absence like a cloak.

I may not have admitted it easily, but I’ve been grieving since I lost him. But then, when have I ever not? I’ve heard so many theories about what might have happened to Orange; most of them funny. And while I might have pretended to laugh at the jokes, my heart hurt.

This isn’t just a story about Orange.
It’s a story about the ever-flowing, drowning river of grief and how my cat became an aspect of it. Grief has been my most loyal companion. Its hold on me only seems to intensify as the year draws to a close.

When Orange first arrived, he hid under my bed and resisted my efforts to get close until he became familiar. I think that’s how grief arrived, too , quietly, hiding, waiting for me to notice it until it became comfortable.

I learned patience with Orange, and in that same way, I learned to tolerate grief, even as it gnawed at my core.

When I lost Orange, it reawakened every other thing I’ve lost over the years ; the parts of me I gave away, friendships that died, love that left, and the illusion of control over what I wanted to make stay.

As I searched for Orange, my prayer changed from ‘please love me’ to ‘please stay’, even as the dreadful realization that he was truly gone dawned on me.

Maybe I was asking him to stay. Maybe I was asking grief to let me go. 

Grief and I still share a home, and sometimes it curls not at my feet but in my heart.