I have been asked to mourn you,

to feel each thing that I said I did not feel.

Feel grief,

feel pain, feel the tears leave wet trails

along their downward journey.

Feel the despair, the hopelessness, the fear.

I felt nothing when I saw you, dead.

I held you,

hoping to feel warm.

I felt the softness of your fur,

the stiffness of your limbs and the paper thinness of your ears.

I picked you up, my mind scanning for space in the garden,

too full of the dead. I did not mourn.

A creeper, a rose, maybe a herb bush,

or some catnip.

But most importantly, for a few months

a heavy pot, I would have to find a very heavy pot to place

on top, so you would not be dug out, rotting and ghastly.

I did not mourn you.

I cannot mourn you.

My shoulders shrug,

I sigh.

What can I do?

I do not even remember the times together entirely.

You, asleep on my bed, purring.

You, heaped up in a pile of others, a rag patch purring quilt.

You chasing shadows and butterflies.

You hungry at 5 am.

You on my lap,

You, soft and prickly,

jumpy and purry,

crazy and wise.

I did not mourn you.

I have not mourned you.

I hope that it is not important to mourn, for you and for me.

I just hope that it’s a Dr.Who universe,

and you are there,

and a crack in time

will widen

and we will meet.