My little heart withered last summer when it was necessary to put to sleep, to complete, to shorten, to soften, to end, the previously peaceful but immediately painful existence of my beloved cat.
She was 17 years old and an invasive tumor had gotten the better of us. Of us, yes of us, because a cat like that is a limb that is torn from you, a piece of heart, a member of the family; many, many, many things and feelings.
Like a true companion cat, she accompanied me day and night, cuddling me all the time, especially at night.
Not very meowing, always cute and sweet, I had never seen such a ball of unconditional love. Always there and eager to lick our tears and purr gently nestled against us.
Its special feature? A small, delicate aristocat fly near her snout.
Her talent? Being the cutest girl in the world.
A love cat, she also became a muse, settling on my knees while I painted.
Since I've missed her, I haven't painted anymore. This heartache is a blank canvas.
I no longer go into my studio, except to water the plant.
All that's left is to wait, brush in hand, with time everything will go away.