ghost of you

I knew it—somewhere in the back of my mind, I understood what it meant. Those were two messages. I felt the urgency. It had only been seven minutes since I received the messages.

Seven minutes. 

For some reason, I woke up at 4:19 AM. Only seven minutes after those messages were sent.

I put my phone down and turned away from it. I didn’t want to read them yet. It was self-denial. I was afraid of being hurt. I prayed so hard for a miracle but I couldn’t help but feel as if Maui had already lost.

I shook the negativity away and braved myself into reading the messages. 

Maui had a seizure, and by the time I read it, they were already trying to revive him.

His tiny body gave up.

That tiny body I had only held for two days.

It wasn’t long before another message came. 4:45 AM—Maui had passed away.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel.

What happened during those hours that he was left alone in that clinic? Surrounded by strangers who probably did not have the faith that Maui can even survive. To them, he was just another hopeless case. That moment I thought maybe I should have kept him with us—beside Nala. His cries kept ringing in my head. Those long, painful cries. That was a bad call. I never should have sent him away—no matter what awaited us. Now, I am not so sure if what I am feeling is resentment or simply grief. Resentment towards those clinic staffs, resentment towards myself for messing up and losing Maui in the saddest way possible.

I took him from his mom and left him to die there without anything or anyone familiar to him. Not even a scent. Maui probably cried even more. I wonder—did they feel the same ache in their heart each time he cried for so long that he almost sounded like a real infant in so much pain? 

That morning, we drove and fetched him. They placed Maui in a box with the same heating pad they used last night to keep him warm. He was still so soft when I held him, just how a newborn kitten should be. He even had that pink shade on his tiny nose and lips—not a hint of distress, but things didn’t change. We were going to drive home not to bring good news, but to say our goodbyes.

As we drove home, I checked his things and noticed his milk bottle. The silicone nipple meant for him was untouched—no hole, no sign that it had ever been used. Instead, the one attached was larger, the kind meant for puppies… even human babies.

My heart sank.

How could Maui—so tiny you could mistake him for a rat—possibly feed from something that big? The clinic staff had explicitly told me they fed him twice. Twice. But how was I supposed to believe that, when I had the evidence sitting in my own hands?

We lost Maui—then we were lied to.

Back home, we knew the garden was where Maui belonged. Mat dug a small resting place for him, just beneath my sunflower. It felt right to lay him there, somewhere we could keep him close in the softest way we knew how.

“It’s ready”, the moment I realized I had to lay him down, I finally bursted into tears. I couldn’t let go. As crazy as it may sound, I wanted to hold him a little longer. Because once I did, there was no going back. I couldn’t bear the thought of Maui alone beneath the ground. That tiny soul meant so much to me more than his small body could ever hold. The smallest of them all—the only boy in Nala’s first litter. I like to believe that when I used to gently rub Nala’s tummy, he was there, nudging back in his own quiet way, already reaching for the world. Thinking of it like that makes it easier somehow.

When I finally laid him in that small space for him, he looked as though he felt safe—curled in on himself, like he was back inside his mother’s womb. His tiny body rested gently, as if he was only sleeping.

And then the weight of it all came rushing in. I cried so hard—the kind that leaves no room for air.

Our sweet, sweet Maui. I’m so sorry for not being ready, for not knowing better, for all the wrong decisions that led to this. I knew how painful it was for you, but for what it’s worth, I truly hope that whatever feeling there was when you took your final breath—it was not loneliness. 

xoxo

Your Would-Be-Litter-Box-Cleaner 🩷