Which we knew was coming. Which was a preemptive strike, given that his liver was almost all cancer and he was fifteen years old and he was so tired, and it could have all gone wrong at any moment. And yet my family is reeling; it doesn’t change that. My dad goes to make tea but forgets to boil the kettle. My mum cries when she walks into the living room and remembers he isn’t there. The world doesn’t end, and that’s sort of the worst part.
I don’t know if I can write much, now. I want to. My mum and I sit on the kitchen floor at 8am, before we take him to the vet’s, telling stories that we already know and reminding each other of memories we’ve half-forgotten. Afterwards, we are quiet. Love does not stop death, but death does not stop love, either.