When I walked out to the garden today I didn’t look at the tomatoes, the zinnias, or the cosmos I knew were blooming. Today I looked at the garden thinking where to put a memorial for my loved and loving cat, Zerlina, who has died. She was twenty years old and I had her for eighteen of those years. That’s as long as either of my children lived home with me.

Zerlina moved with me from Pasadena to Michigan; I watched her encounter snow for the first time. She caught mice before I even knew they were in the house. She waited for me at the foot of the stairs every morning, meowing for her “Pet Fest,” our mutual grooming session: I brushed her and she licked me. She had such a soft coat, I used to tell her she was secretly a chinchilla. I keep a small bit of that luxurious fur, in a tiny bottle, in my jewelry box.

She was very much my companion. When she wasn’t looking out the window at passing ducks,

she helped with my sewing projects,

or inspected whatever I brought in from the garden.

I have a glider bench in the garden where I like to sit with my tea at the end of the day, and think about things.

Nearby is a gazing ball with thyme and flowers around it, and I think I will put Zerlina’s ashes under it with a marker of some kind.

It should be a good place for her memorial:
Zerlina, August 2004 – August 2024.