Last weekend we lost our sweet Peanut. At seventeen-years-old, he was surely no longer a kitten. Visibly aged, struggling with arthritis, and suffering from multiple gastrointestinal discomforts...he was hurting.
It was nonetheless one of the hardest decisions our little family has ever made together...saying goodbye.
On the day we lost Peanut, the clouds rolled in. It rained. And rained.
On Wednesday, the sun came out. We weren't yet ready to meet with society head-on and so we went to a small park that is usually relatively uninhabited by Homo sapiens (aside from a few of the middle-aged, angler variety).
As we meandered down the central walking path - following alongside the Quittapahilla Creek - our attentions turned (as they oftentimes do this time of year) to the shallow ponds formed when snows melt and the spring rains arrive. In one of the larger seasonal ponds a female Mallard was foraging in the muck, gleefully tugging at plants; she barely noticed us.
We walked the length of the central path and began to ascend the small staircase known as Blood Root Hill, soon we discovered its namesake. There in the leaf litter, waiting to greet us, stood a perfectly lovely bloodroot.
I can't accurately describe the emotions one experiences when being given the opportunity to see bloodroot emerging in spring. It was as if this small flower represented our very experiences over the previous few days - remaining sheltered until we could effectively push out into the world and bloom again. Ah! The very next day it was gloomy again. The clouds rolled in...and the drizzle returned. Today, heavy rain darkened the sky. And so like the bloodroot, for one warm, sunny day we matured and now we are feeling a bit storm-shattered again.
With each day that passes we are becoming more and more used to this quieter house. And although we miss Peanut terribly, I know we are all going to be okay.