poeticnook

We don't talk about death in the family. Death is like a piece of dirt that we prefer to hide under the carpet rather than sweep away into its proper place.

I've wondered about this a lot of times. Why do we pretend it didn't happen? Why do we keep quiet and go about our daily tasks thinking that if we ignore or deny its existence then death will just go away, and it won't be real anymore?

Four days ago a neighbor threw away two one-day-old kittens outside our gate. One of them died on the spot, the other one fought for life, crying relentlessly, demanding to be heard, felt, loved.

I named him Miro, it would have been a miracle if he survived given his condition, but we tried anyway. We bought him pet's milk and a nurser bottle and did our best to care for a little life that was carelessly thrown away by irresponsible people.

Sadly, miracles don't grow on trees these days, not that it ever did, but I was hoping this once it would appear from out of nowhere to fight death, and let life win.

Life won. Miro passed away yesterday morning. He fought for life for a few days before death took him away ever so swiftly, silently, without mercy.

Today Miro's little life was heard, felt, loved. And forever remembered.