Out Loud Thoughts

I talk to the cats now. Not that I didn’t talk to them before. I did. We both did. But now there is more talking.

The house is quiet. Really quiet.

Staying with my sister last week reminded me there are no more ‘good morning’ or ‘good night’ greetings. No spontaneous songs invented on the fly. No arguments over control of the tv remote. No running commentary from the other side of the couch about the predictable plot of whatever Hallmark movie I have decided we are watching.

So I talk to Marius and Eponine. They understand. Or at least they humor me by pretending they do.

We have something important in common: Eric took care of us. Most importantly, he was in charge of feeding.

For the cats, this meant variety. The vet had recommended a particular brand of canned food, and Eric took that recommendation seriously.

The cats had long made it clear they were not happy with culinary monotony. So there were different flavors. Chicken. Turkey. Duck. No seafood because it’s hard on the kidneys of male cats.

Marius and Eponine had and still have preferences, naturally. Strong preferences. They inspect each offering with the seriousness of restaurant critics who had been promised something better. Eric accommodated them. He was like that.

He also accommodated me. I have one very clear food rule: No olives. No mushrooms. This is not a suggestion. It is a policy. Eric knew this. He respected it. If something appeared on my plate that contained either one, he would remove it, usually without making a federal case out of it.

This was love, too. Not the grand, cinematic kind. The everyday kind. The kind that knows which canned cat food flavor will be accepted without complaint. The kind that remembers no olives, no mushrooms. The kind that feeds you.

Sometimes I remind the cats.

“You know,” I say, “your papa was very good at taking care of us.” Marius looks at me. Eponine looks at me. I assume they agree.

I tell them that I miss him. Marius looks at me. Eponine looks at me. I’ve decided one of the things cats are exceptionally good at is being there. I think they miss him too.

They don’t get their morning greetings anymore. Nobody is adding to their ever growing list of nicknames. No one is making up spontaneous songs for them.

Eric could turn anything into a song. There would be a tune, then lyrics that made no sense, and somehow the cats became the subject of a full musical production. I can’t reproduce it. I’ve tried. It isn’t the same.

That’s one of the strange things about grief. You don’t just miss the person. You miss the sounds they made. The routines. The interruptions. The completely unnecessary arguments.

Like the TV remote.

Eric always wanted control of the remote. After long workdays, I wanted control of the remote. There were negotiations. There were challenges. There were occasionally competing claims of ownership that had no legal basis whatsoever.

And then there were the Hallmark movies.

I love Hallmark movies. I know they are predictable. I know exactly what is going to happen. I know there will be a misunderstanding that could be resolved if the two leads would simply talk to each other. I know someone will leave town. I know they will return. I know there will be a charming small town, a career crisis, an unexpected snowstorm, a Christmas tree farm, or some combination thereof.

Eric knew all of this too. He felt compelled to point it out with running commentary throughout the movie, despite my shushing.  Sometimes his commentary was more entertaining than the movie. I would pretend to be annoyed. He would continue.

Now I would give almost anything to hear the snarky commentary again.

Sometimes, when I’m watching a Hallmark movie, I look over at the cats. “He’s going to say this plot is ridiculous.” Marius looks at me.

“He’s going to point out that they could solve the entire problem if they just had one conversation.” Eponine looks at me. “And he’s going to ask why I keep watching these.” Nothing. “Because I like them,” I tell them. And because I liked watching them with him.

That’s the part the cats can’t quite understand. Or maybe they do. Maybe they know that what I really miss isn’t the Hallmark movie. Or the remote battles. Or even the songs.

I miss the person sitting beside me while all of those ordinary things were happening.

The house is quieter now. The cats are more needy of attention. We are learning to talk to one another.

They listen. Mostly. And when they don’t, I imagine Eric would have had something snarky to say about that too.  I tell them, “Your papa would have understood.” Marius looks at me. Eponine looks at me.

And for just a moment, the house doesn’t feel quite so quiet.