I’ve come to the conclusion that grief is like a cat. They are both somewhat unpredictable.

Sometimes it turns its head and ignores me. We peacefully co-exist but there is little interaction.I can almost forget it is in the room with me.

Other times it arches its back and hisses at me. I jump back, wondering what happened to set it off. Still worse is when the claws come out and blood is drawn. This usually happens at times I least expect it. I need to hide away afterwards and tend to my wounds.

Then there are days like yesterday. I looked around my living room and saw so many reminders of the life and love I’d shared with my husband. My metaphorical grief cat curled up on my lap. Whether it was there to comfort or to be comforted, I don’t know. Either way, we had some special moments as I stroked its soft fur and felt its heartbeat. We bonded in a new way.

I’d never thought of grief in these terms before. Last night I dreamt about cats and wondered why. This morning I thought about it and understood.