There are some people I know who cannot fathom the thought that I have a cat, or more precisely, a cat's ashes, in an engraved wooden box in the headboard of my bed. They think it's ghoulish, or morbid, or ridiculous. And they are entitled to that opinion. But to me, it just feels right. After all, Bill was happiest on my bed. He slept with us every night. He spent 18 of his 24 cat day hours ensconced on my side of the Tempur-pedic. So why shouldn't he spend his after-life there as well?
We lost Hillary about 10 days ago. And before anyone thinks of it on their own, yes, they were adopted in 1993. And yes, they were named after the then First Couple. And yes, they even resembled the human Bill and Hillary. Bill had a beautiful gray and silver coat. He could befriend anyone, and was always good for a head butt or two. Hillary, tan and gray, slightly overweight with a constantly changing hairstyle (oops, I mean coat of fur) was intelligent and aloof. She was cautious in her friendships, but once you were accepted into her circle, she was with you for life. Hillary's ashes arrived at the office today in a Fed Ex box. And since her favorite spot was my husband's side of the bed, she'll now have a place in his headboard, just a particle board wall away from Bill.
So these members of our family will always be with us, in this house or anywhere else we wind up. I can even pretend, in the deepest form of denial, that they are still here. And if that makes us both feel better, then what can I say? Ghoulish? No. Comforting? Yes. And that's all that matters.