Eyes that never opened

I can’t. I simply can’t carry on writing if each finger tap feels so heavy. But I will continue....
It was a rainy night when Kiki came into our lives. And we were in awe.

I mean, the kitten was an infant! Jet black fur coat and a white belly, Kiki was so adorable, you could cuddle it the whole day. How she played with the small fur-ball, with her even smaller paws....

Feeding her was the best part of me and my sister’s day. Kiki would move her head this way and that ways as dad fed her milk with an eye-dropper. The sound she made when she made when she meowed while gulping the milk was so funny that one could not stop laughing! Kiki was the light of our lives. But good times were short lived....

With time Kiki developed a sort of raspiness in her meows. Dad said it was nothing. But deep down, even he knew that Kiki wasn’t well.

I was the first one to wake up that day. I always had the habit of checking her belly if it was breathing. That day she was breathing heavier than usual. I rubbed her coat and called softly (I choked), hoping that she would turn a blind eye to heavens gate and return to us, her family.
Kiki died. My sister was inconsolable, dad was gloomy, I secretly cried to myself. Even my mother, who was always a bit edgy about pets, wasn’t upbeat. She had left a large void, impossible to fill. But not before she taught us many things. She taught us to sleep soundly on a rag, she taught us to enjoy stale milk as if it were the grandest of feasts. Kiki taught us to be more humane than we can ever be, to enjoy the little joys of life. TO LIVE.

By the time I am writing this sentence I am almost in tears. I had promised to myself and to Kiki that I would write about her. And now that I have fulfilled my promise, my heart feels lighter. Kiki is and will always be the closest to my heat. I will never ever forget her. NEVER.
Goodbye, Kiki!