Monday, September 30, 2013

I think I might have to report my cat to Interpol...

Lola is a cat burglar.  I mean literally.  Our smallest black cat... burgles.  She has a penchant for jewelry.  She must be part magpie.  Which is a cute little quirk generally, except that a while back she stole one of my most adored pieces of jewelery - a pendant from my friend Shannon.  I'm pretty sure Lola's stashed it in her secret cat cache of stolen goods.  I'm hoping I'll be able to find it before she puts it on the black market.

And because she, like the other cats in the house, can't actually talk, she won't tell me where this secret cache is.  I've been looking under beds and dressers, carpets.  I've pleaded with her, tears have been shed, but to no avail.

Thing is?  This particular piece of jewelery is one of the last presents that my friend Shan gave to me before she died.  I've been using it as a talisman - a memento amicus as it were.  I would feel the roundness of the blown glass against my throat and it would calm me, I'd feel better, feel closer to her, the pain would disperse just that little bit.  And you need that when you've lost a friend so young in life.  She was only 41.  I desperately needed that object I could palm in my hand and think She touched this too.  She chose this with love.

I keep thinking, Maybe it'll be here, in the bottom of this bag.  I'll step on something under a rug and my heart will leap, Is this it??  And it never is.  And it's now been months and when I reach for it in my jewelery box there are mornings I'm near tears with its loss.

So I'm going to find another one;  or have it made... whatever the case, I will have a pendant of the same shape, size and colour and I will imbue it with all my best memories of her.  It is, after all, just an object.  Shannon was not that piece of turquoise and lavender glass.  But in my mind somehow, this object had become that tie to her.  My attempts to describe her would probably sound corny and clichéd.  But those clichés become what they are because there is that truth in them, that truth to them.

Shannon was a fierce friend.  Shannon's smile could power the Eastern Seaboard in a blackout.  Shannon had this ridiculous vaudeville-esque finger magic trick, that wasn't her trick at all, but rather her version of her father's trick, that always made me laugh.  Shannon would sing to you because the lyrics of that particular song were perfect for the moment and would bring you solace.  I haven't beatified her in death.  I didn't have to.  She was pretty damned perfect on her own. Which is why instead of bemoaning my lost tie to her, I'm making another one that I can hold and take comfort in.  And if that disappears into the ether, I'll create another.  Its tangible weight in my hand will give me strength.  Just as she did.

Love you Shan.

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