Héméra 🌹🌿 Republicana💛😺🇦🇷...

Dad’s old brown jacket was folded on the bottom shelf. The cat stepped onto it, pushed his nose into a sleeve, and turned around twice before lying down. Dad wore that jacket when he sat on the porch. Even on warm evenings, he’d bring it outside and spread it across his knees. The cat usually ended up on top. I’d forgotten that until I saw him settle into the lining. One cuff was frayed. There was a pale mark near the pocket where Dad had spilled paint years ago. It was exactly the sort of thing I’d been putting into bags without looking too closely. I sat on the bed for a while. The cat tucked his paws beneath him and closed his eyes. Since I’d brought him home, I’d bought a bed, changed his food, and worried because he wandered around at night. Here, he fell asleep while I was still sitting there. I left the wardrobe open and packed the other room. At the end of the day, I came back with his carrier. I lifted the jacket carefully, expecting him to get up and walk away. Instead, he tried to settle back onto it while I was holding it. So I lined the carrier with it. He climbed in before I’d finished flattening the sleeve. I carried him out past the boxes marked SELL and DONATE and secured the carrier on the back seat. At home, I put the jacket in his bed beside the sofa. He lay down, and I reached to straighten the collar. For a moment, my hand rested where Dad’s shoulder used to be. I left it there until the cat leaned against it.

Last Saturday, I told my father’s cat to stop scratching the wardrobe. Dad had been dead for six weeks. I was trying to clear his bedroom before the house went on the market. The cat had been living with me since the funeral. I brought him along when I spent the day packing, thinking he might prefer somewhere familiar. Every time, he went straight to Dad’s room. He ignored the empty bed and the chair by the window. He sat in front of the wardrobe, scratching the door and crying. I moved him away. He went back. I checked his water, offered him food, and opened the curtains. Nothing helped. By that weekend, I was tired of making decisions about every object Dad had owned. Sell the dresser. Donate the clothes. Keep the photographs. I’d spent twenty minutes holding a chipped mug because I remembered him drinking from it. After that, I started working faster. The cat kept scratching. “Give me a minute,” I said, more sharply than I needed to. I wondered whether a mouse had got into the wardrobe. The house had been empty, and there were gaps behind the shelves. I finally put the packing tape down and opened the door. He stopped crying immediately.