Itâs as if my body holds movements within it that must be carried out, but no longer have an outlet. My fingers long to caress Keikoâs soft cheek, to cup her ear when she lovingly presses her head against me, seeking as much closeness as possible. But there is no longer a Keiko longing for cuddles, and my fingers fumble blindly in the void.
My feet suddenly halt and stumble, trying to avoid tripping over a food-loving Keiko, who never understood that knocking her humans to the floor wouldnât get her served any faster. But there is no longer a Keiko eagerly following the scent of food, and now I stumble over emptiness.
Itâs as if my legs constantly but in vain want to mold themselves around a few kilos of warm, cozy catâa cat that can no longer lie there.
And itâs as if even the language I speak no longer functions as it should. To speak of a cat in the singular when there have always been two. To say "Keiko and Kira," "Kira and Keiko," to always have the otherâs name on my tongue, and to always think of them as one, though they were two. But there is no longer a Keiko to call, now that she can no longer join Kira in the cuddling ritual on the bed after dinner.
And to talk about "us," to say "we," which for so long has been synonymous with fourâitâs impossible to make it mean three. Because itâs as if the soul cannot comprehend that our family no longer consists of Petri, Micke, Kira, and Keiko. Itâs as if the soul and its physical appendages lack a way to express the longing, the enormous vacuum that has emerged.
Therefore, there are no words I can say, no tears I can shed, no feelings I can desperately try to scream out that can adequately encompass all that this little cat was (is!!!), all that our family (we are four, family means four!!!) is.
And so, this text becomes just a futile attempt to grasp for expressions that are denied to me. Maybe one day, I can find the right letters, the right sequence of words, to form even a vaguely accurate picture of all that Keiko was.
Until then, I can only say: Keiko, I love you. You will always be a part of our family. Together, we were so much more than four individuals, and not even death can change that. I am so grateful for everything you gave us. Grateful that we got to be one with you. Kira, Petri, and I will carry you with us as long as we live.
And what happens then, when none of us are leftâwell, thatâs something else entirely. That adventure, we will write together. I sincerely hope that it will be so.
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