I Will Remember You

In our quiet neighborhood, there is a cross in the middle of the road, right on the black asphalt surface. Some days it is drawn in bright pink, but usually it is done in white chalk. Sometimes it looks more like a plus sign. But it is renewed on a daily basis, as are the letters and numbers written on the curb in blue chalk:

Yoda R.I.P. 4-20-08 to 8-2-09

I had to assume that Yoda was a beloved pet, some one's furry baby that didn't even make it to sixteen-months-old.

One morning, while walking my dogs, I saw her bend down in the middle of the street, small chalk piece in hand. It was the younger silver haired lady from what I call the Elderly House (there are three people living there, all with silver hair).
She told me that Yoda was one of her cats, found dead against the curb one August day. She thinks Yoda may have been hit by a car.

I said I was sorry for her loss. I told her we had lost our kitty, too, coincidentally when he was almost sixteen months old.

Neither of us sounded too grief stricken, but we both agreed that the loss of any pet was something to be mourned, for literally years.

I still think of Cleo kitty, gone for a little over a year, now. I think of Caesar pug and Oscar the one-eyed pug on almost a daily basis. I picture them as angels who are watching me, knowing when I think about them, missing them. I pretend that they influence who they can in heaven, putting in a good word for me to ensure continued blessings for my earthly life.

And I check the middle of the road for Yoda's cross whenever I drive by the Elderly House. It comforts me somehow, knowing that a vigil continues to be kept for the deceased kitty, gone but not forgotten.