Voices from the Edge: God, Dad, and the Fortress of Solitude

“All of us need a private space. Autistic children need their secret places too in which they can hide and retreat to their own world. After all autism is a withinness disability and autistic children need the security of their own hideaways. I had mine, it was a place for me to think and recharge myself.” Temple Grandin

FedEx:Delivered 07/23 at 5:23 PM.

"Allen," I call into the dining room where Allen is playing a game on my computer. "I just got a text that your tent was delivered!"

"Really?" my son shouts back to me. "I thought it was going to be late!" I hear the chair scrape across the

floor and the sliding door Allen keeps shut to block out the game noises is opened. Excitedly, he rushes to the front door, eager to retrieve the package we ordered two weeks ago. I settle back into my rocking chair and pick up my knitting. A lot of preparation has gone into this event. We have put up a shed, sorted through Allen's collections of salvaged items stored for the last year under a tarp on the patio, and engaged in long conversations about the usefulness--or not--of certain things. The patio is now clear and ready for the tent--a pop-up gazebo--that will provide a space for Allen to work on his projects.

Like others who live on the autism spectrum, Allen needs his own personal space. It has not always been easy to attain in a small three-bedroom row house with siblings and a series of "lost boys" trooping in and out. A year ago, he claimed his now-married sister's abandoned room--once my office--as his project room, but I've lately been dropping hints about taking it back. Ordering the gazebo provided a space for Allen during the warmer months but also served as a prompt for him to clean off the patio. Win, win.

Or not. Allen comes in from the front yard, fists clenched together, struggling to control his breathing. "Let me see the text" he yells and grabs my phone. "Well, it says it was delivered but it was not! They are lying to me!"

I sense the beginning of a melt-down, something we struggle to avoid and have been managing well lately. I speak slowly and calmly; chances are, my son will follow my lead. "Hmmm," I say. I notice his breathing levels out. "Well, let's think about what we should do. Let's think about other things we've had delivered that didn't arrive."

Allen sits on the edge of the couch, my cell phone still in his hand. He stares at the text again. In a moment, he speaks. "We look in other places. Like neighbors' houses."

"Right!" I say, happy he is moving into problem solving. "So, let's go do that."

I abandon my knitting and my peaceful evening and we venture out into the summer night, heading in opposite directions as we check the porches and front stoops of neighbors. But, alas, the box is not to be found. I steel myself for what might happen.

But Allen remains calm. "There's that guy down the street with the dog," Allen says. "Sometimes we get packages for him and we have to drop them off. Maybe he got ours today."

"Good thought," I say so Allen grabs his car keys and takes a short drive to the mentioned house. I take the opportunity to call Fed Ex and reach a real live person, which is not an easy thing to do and may possibly cause me to have my own meltdown. I am told, politely, that the package was delivered but the driver will be contacted and someone will get back to me. I hang up knowing that no one will.

Allen returns and does a little bit of verbal stimming--grunts and groans--before he settles onto the couch again. "The thing is," he says, "I NEED the tent. It's, like, my space. My own personal space. I need it to work on my projects. I need it so you can have your office back." He eyes me. "You know, that, right?"

I assure him that I do know that and that I have called Fed -Ex. It is getting late now and there is not much more we can do tonight except wait, something Allen is not very good at.

He heaves a deep sigh. "There is one more thing we can do," he says. He gulps. "We can pray."

I am surprised to hear this as an option. It has been over a year, to my knowledge anyway, that Allen has prayed. I speak slowly, carefully. Allen is like a baby deer, sometimes, easily spooked. "Well," I say in my totally calm teacher voice, "that is a good idea. What made you think of such a good idea?"

He shrugs but I can tell he is pleased. "Well, Dad always liked my projects, right?" I nod. "But Dad is in Heaven with God now, right?" I nod again and try to keep tears from falling. "So I thought maybe Dad could talk to God about it, and let God know how much I NEED the tent. I think God will listen to Dad because, well, God's a dad, too."

I cannot argue with Allen's logic so together we bow our heads while Allen prays: "Dear God, if you have the time, could you go find my dad? He can tell you why I need the tent and how important it is to me. And if you talk to him, tell him Allen says 'hi'." My son finishes his prayer and looks up expectantly. "I'll check!" he says and goes to open the front door. "Nothing yet." He shuts the door again. "But there's a lot of people in Heaven. It might take God a while to find Dad."

I nod, not trusting my voice to speak.We watch an episode of Marvel: Agents of Shield. Allen prays again. And, after he has gone to bed, I add my own prayer. Fervently. On my knees.

The first thing Allen does the next morning is check for his package. It's also the second and the third thing he does. While he goes outside to move a few things into the shed, I make a phone call to the company that sold the tent. The woman I speak with, Jennifer, offers to send us a replacement or a refund. I tell her I will talk to Allen and let her know.

I am on my way outside, reluctant to damage Allen's fledgling faith, when I hear a thump at the front door. My heart pounding loudly, I go to the door and there, on the step, in all it's banged up and taped back together glory is a long heavy box. There is a picture of the gazebo tent on it.

"Thank you, God!" I shout as I rush through the kitchen and to the back door. "Allen!" I call across the yard. "It came! Your tent came!"

As excited as any small boy on Christmas morning, Allen rushes to the front and pulls the purloined package into the house, unpacking it and laying the pieces out carefully. "Wow," he says time and again. "Wow. God heard me. He must have talked to Dad!"

We haul the pieces to the patio and, with some effort and muscle, manage to get the gazebo upright and stable. Allen walks around happily hammering the tent stakes in place and asking which of the deck chairs he can use. Any of them, I tell him. I am probably as happy as he is that his place, his fortress of solitude, is now up and ready. But in a moment, I am even happier.

Allen, my tall son who has lived all of his life on the edge of the autism spectrum, who has struggled to adapt to a world he does not understand, who has in the last year come to a peaceful acceptance of his father's death, stands in the middle of the tent, his arms open to encompass his own territory. "Every time I am in my work space," he says, " I will remember that Dad still loves me." He lowers his voice. "And, I guess, God does, too."

Voices from the Edge: Handle with Kid Gloves

It was the White Rabbit returning , splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, "Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!"

—Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, 1865

Allen has pulled a shopping cart from the corral and tied our market bags to it. He adjusts his face mask and prepares to push into the market. I stop him with a touch on his arm.

“Remember what I said about the gloves?” I nod to the heavy gloves he has been wearing for the last two days as we worked on the yard, clipping bushes and clearing up the debris from many winters of neglect.  

He shakes off my hand impatiently.  “What?”

I put on a smile. “I asked you not to wear those work gloves in the store because you’ve been using them in the yard. They are full of dirt. We don’t want to spread anything.”

His outburst is instantaneous. “Then I can’t go in!” he says loudly. A couple of people turn in our direction but after years of mothering this autistic adult, I know it best to just ignore them. “I need to protect my hands! The CDC says so because of the virus!”

I speak calmly, my mind exploring alternatives. “You could put plastic bags on your hands, the ones they have for the vegetables.”

But my son is adamant. “NO! I have to wear gloves! I have to!” I fear we are bordering on a meltdown, the last thing any mother wants in a public place. And at 6 foot 4 inches, Allen’s meltdowns can make others wary. 

“Okay,” I say to him. “We’ll just go home and get a clean pair of gloves.” He is mollified for a moment but becomes agitated once back in the car.

“I just have other things to do!” He says. “I don’t need this!” He is taking short breaths, hyperventilating, and begins a series of grunts and groans, verbal stims.

“I know,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot. “It’ll just take a few minutes.” I keep my tone light. No pressure. All is well. The more I believe it, the more Allen will, too. 

He is silent for a few minutes, slapping his hands against his thighs, but his breathing is becoming even. I can almost feel the fury leaving him as he sinks back against the seat.

We are two blocks from home when he speaks again, his voice quiet and regretful.  “I hate when the beast in me comes out. I don’t like it at all. I don’t like to act that way.”

“I know,” I tell him. “None of us like to get mad.” As Allen has gotten older, he has gained more control of his meltdowns. They are now few and far between.

“I really try to have good intentions,” he tells me. “Like helping you shop and do the yard work. But then things go wrong. And I feel like a beast. And I just want to roar and I feel  like I could just, like, eat the whole world.”

Lately, Allen has been able to verbalize his feelings more clearly and be open with them. I am proud of how hard he is working at it.  “But you knew how to control it,” I tell him. “ You knew what the problem was and you told me.”

“And you solved it,” he said.

“No,” I tell him. “You solved it. You knew what you needed and asked for it.” I shrug. “I just happened to be smart enough to buy several pairs of gloves.”

We pull up to the house. I take a moment to admire the work we have been doing. The overgrown rose

bushes are now trimmed, the ground beneath them covered with mulch. The bushes on the hill are sprouting the little yellow flowers that were hidden under dead leaves. It has been a long, long time--years--since I have had time to give to a garden. I wonder briefly what Ron would think of the outside now.  I go onto the porch to get a clean pair of work gloves, passing the little stone I have placed by the front steps. “ Goodbyes are not forever, goodbyes are not the end. They simply mean I’ll miss you, until we meet again. “ I return quickly  to the car and hand the gloves to Allen. He puts them on and seems happy with them. 

“You can use these for market gloves,” I tell him. “We’ll wash them each time.” He nods and turns his hands

over, stretching his fingers. Sensory issues are a problem sometimes, but the gloves seem to be passing

the test. 

Unexpected Blessings: Voices from the edge

My son is in a hurry to get the marketing done because I have promised him Wendy's for supper. He races around Save a Lot, gathering the things we get every week: pizza, chips, soda. I take a more leisurely approach, pushing my cart up and down every aisle as I peruse my list.

"Do you know where the baking powder is?" asks an elderly woman in the baking aisle.

"Right here," I say and reach up on the top shelf to get the item. I hand it to her.

"Don't know why they keep changing things around," she grumbles and I just smile. Just then, I see Allen barreling towards us, his arms full of the microwave sandwiches he likes. He dumps them unceremoniously into the cart and rushes on past. My shopping companion holds her hand to her chest.

"Mercy!" she says. "What's wrong with him?"

I turn to look at my son's retreating form, trying to see what she sees. To me he is just my youngest child, an adult on the autism spectrum. But I know the wild hair--getting Allen to comb it is an issue most days--and the brusque attitude is often seen as others to be strange. Add to that Allen's tall stature--all 6 feet 6 inches of him--and some people do feel threatened by him.

But I know Allen. I know him to be gentle and kind and often confused by the world. I turn and face the woman next to me. "That's my son," I say gently. "He has autism."

"Mercy!" she declares again. "You poor thing!" she pats my arm. "To have a mental child like that!"

I take a deep breath. I could smile and walk on. But even though it might fall on deaf ears, I make a decision to educate. I am, after all, a teacher as well as a mother. "His brain works differently than some," I tell the woman. "There is nothing wrong with his brain. It just takes him longer to understand things. And right now," I lean in towards her conspiratorially, "his mind is focused on getting a burger at Wendy's for supper."

"Still," says the woman, her voice a bit unsure now," must be a burden on you."

"Not at all," I say. "Allen and I understand each other. We have a routine. He gets the things we need every week." Just then Allen roars past us again, adding a container of cat litter and a box of trash bags to the cart. He barely pauses as he rounds the corner.

The woman pats my arm again. "Bless your heart," she says.

"You know" I tell her as I begin to move my cart away from hers, " many people are autistic. You might even know some. One in 54 people has some form."

"Really?" She seems surprised. "Are they all like..." she points, "your son?"

I shake my head. "No. Some cannot talk. Some function so well you might not even know they were autistic." I move down the aisle. "Have a nice day," I say.

What's wrong with him? I am sorry to say that I hear that question a lot. Allen doesn't always look like others, or act like others. It takes an intense amount of effort on his part to behave the way society expects him to. His father's funeral a few months ago, for example, required Allen to expend enormous effort to stand by my side and shake hands. And helping Allen process his grief at his father's loss is an ongoing journey. "Autism grief is not neurotypical grief" is a phrase that is now engraved into my brain.

When Allen was born, he seemed to be a healthy baby boy. As the youngest of our three, he was content with very little; he seldom cried or fussed. His older brother and sister made up games with him in the starring role. It wasn't until Allen was 3 that we learned he had some developmental delays. Ron and I needed to help Allen in different ways than we had helped Dennis and Bonnie. He needed different methods of educations. And long with the developmental delays were some physical problems: A blood condition that produces too much ammonia, and an inability to produce salt. he gets dizzy spells sometimes. The diagnosis of autism did not come until adulthood.


Did we ask why? I know Ron did. I know that the thought of a disabled child was troubling. Me? I was his mother. No matter what.

But the woman in the market is not unlike the people in John 9 who asked of Jesus, "Who sinned, Rabbi, his man or his parents that he was born blind?" (vs 2). Jesus responded, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him."

Allen, and others who reside somewhere on the spectrum of autism or are differently abled, is a work of God. Others may not see it, but I know the gentleness that resides within my giant son. Each afternoon, he makes me a cup of tea so I can relax before dinner. Each night, he carefully double-checks the locks on the doors to keep us safe.

I am halfway up the frozen food aisle when I see Allen again. He grins at me and places a package of Tastykakes into the cart. "Almost done?" he asks. Now that the task is almost accomplished, he can slow down. Many who are on the spectrum, like him, can only handle one thing at a time.

"Almost," I say and put a few bags of vegetables into the cart. Just then I spy the woman from the baking aisle coming towards me.

"Don't know why they put the bread up so high," she grumbles.

Allen strides over to her. "Which one do you want?" he asks. "White or wheat?"

"What?" She is clearly startled. She steps back and eyes him warily. His hair is still wild, but he is smiling now. "Oh, wheat," she says.

Allen grabs the bag and hands it to her. "That's what my mom always gets," he tells her and moves back towards me. The woman is still standing there, holding the bag in her hand, looking at Allen as we walk towards the cash registers.

Works of God come in many forms. Some of them are unexpected. Some of them are a tall young man with wild hair and a kind smile.

FINDING DAD

1 Corinthians 2:9 But, as it is written, “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him."

The grass is beginning to grow and cover the earth. Beneath it, a few feet down, is my husband's casket. Only a flag and its holder, placed there three weeks ago, marks the spot. It is time, I tell myself, to order the grave marker, another step on my widow's walk.

I've asked the kids their opinions. Dennis had none, just names and dates. Bonnie wants John 3:16, Ron's favorite verse, and an eagle for Ron's favorite team. Allen, whose presence on the autism spectrum has made his father's death a difficult concept to grasp, has refused to respond. 

But that was three weeks ago. Allen and I have had a good--but busy--day. With a school holiday courtesy of All Saints Day, we have managed to make our way through a long list of errands. Allen even got his hair cut, a task that was daunting back in June but which he now takes in stride. He even accepted a different barber, telling Rachel how he wanted his hair cut and politely shaking her hand
and thanking her when she was done. 

We are driving past Long Croft Cemetery, our trunk full of groceries, the last of our errands completed. Allen, who finds social interactions taxing, is already half-asleep in the passenger seat. But it's been a good day--such a good day--and I feel I can push him just a little more.

"I'm going to order Dad's grave marker on Monday," I say and motion to the cemetery.

"I'm not coming," he murmurs. There is a sigh and a pause. "Why do people do that."

"Do what?"

"Put--you know--markers on people's graves. What's the point?"

Those on the ASD spectrum tend to think in terms of absolutes. What would be a concrete reason I can give? "Well," I say, "I think it's so families can find where their loved one is buried. So they can bring flowers. So they know where they are." I push a little more. "So we'll know where Dad is."

"Dad's not there," Allen says quietly. "Just his old, broken body is there."

I feel a lump in my throat. The fine art of magical thinking has convinced Allen that his father would come back if only he found the right formula. For thirteen weeks after Ron's death, Allen and I spent every Saturday hunting for clues, looking for Ron. We visited Linvilla Orchards and found the strongest horse, sprinkling a few hairs from Ron's brush along the path. We located the tallest tree at Rosetree Park, wrapping a ribbon around its trunk. We explored the oldest bridge at Smedley Park, leaving one of his father's shirts behind. Marking spots where Ron might return. We waited at the station for a train that never came and for two weeks used Google Earth to track the route of a ship on the Delaware with a mysterious symbol that, said Allen, "meant something."

Allen didn't find his father, but he found a way to the other side of his grief. Two weeks ago, the magical journeys ceased. Allen said he was transferring his "sad memories" about his father's last, painful year into his newest and strongest sword. He was done, he said, looking for Dad.

And it seems to have worked. In the last two weeks, any conversation about Ron has been happy: the way he loved to play board games but always cheated, his booming laugh and warm hugs, his crazy dance movements known in the family as "doing the Ronnie."

Autism grief is not neuro-typical grief. Allen has needed time to figure it out. I have tried to be wise enough to let him. We seemed to have arrived at a good place. But it's been a good day, a really good day, so I venture one more question.

"If Dad's not at the cemetery and he's not on the boat and he's not on the train, where is he?"

Autism grief is not neuro-typical grief. But with enough time, enough magic, enough faith, and enough love, we can all find what we need.

My son looks at me with tears in his eyes. "Well," he says, "sometimes I like to pretend he's across the street at the firehouse, talking to the guys. Because that helps me. But," and he lets a few tears fall, "I know he's in heaven. And I know he's okay."

And Allen, too, will be okay.

THE MAGIC SWORD

“Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”― J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Allen lays three of his swords on the rug in front of me. Like others who function on the autism spectrum, he has many collections of many things, but swords are his favorite. One sword is heavy and broad, one is short with a curved blade, and one is thin but strong with a fancy handle. It is the last one that is the newest, purchased just hours ago at Booth Corner's Farmer's Market for Allen's birthday.

"I need to put my consciousness into one of these swords," he says. "Which one do you think will be best?'

A million questions circle through my head, but I look at each sword and ask the one I think matters the most. "All of your consciousness," I ask, "or just part of it?"

It is the right question. "Just the bad things," Allen says. He sighs. "I'm tired of feeling bad about Dad. I'm tired of trying to make him come back. I know..." he gulps "that he's gone. I did everything I could but--" he holds his hands out in front of him--"none of it worked."

I nod in sympathy. In the fifteen weeks since Ron passed away quite peacefully in his easy chair, Allen's magical thinking has kept alive the hope that his father will one day conquer death and return. Almost every Saturday has found us on another quest for clues. About three weeks ago, the journeys stopped as Allen processed the finality of his father's death and struggled with his loss.

Allen stands up and takes a deep breath. "I don't want to feel bad about it anymore. I don't want to remember the bad things. Like how sick Dad was. And how much pain he was in. It was really sad and I don't like thinking about it."

"Neither do I," I say and fight back tears. The nineteen years since the car accident injured Ron have been difficult, but the past two years were particularly grueling, not  only for Ron but for our family.

"So," Allen continues, "I'm going to take the bad thoughts and I'm going to transfer them to a sword. And then I will only have the good thoughts about Dad. The fun things. The happy things."

"I think, " I say, " that is an excellent idea." I get down on the floor to examine each of the swords carefully. I am not at all alarmed by my son's idea. As an adult with Asperger's Syndrome (HFA), Allen needs tangible items to help with intangible ideas. Many therapists posit writing down your worries on a piece of paper, folding the paper up, and letting the paper handle the worries (PsychCentral). 1 Peter 5:7 suggests that we, "Cast all your worries on Him, because He cares for you." Harvard Health concludes that many people with Asperger's suffer from anxiety but find it difficult to address. I've let Allen do what he needed to do to come to terms with the finality of his father's recent death.

And it seems we have arrived. I study each sword and comment on its good points. Then I touch the one in the middle, the one just recently purchased. A "Three Musketeer Sword" the seller called it because if its fancy red and gold grip. "This one," I say. "And I have two reasons."

"I agree that's a good choice," said Allen. "But why?"



So I tell him. "This sword was not here when Dad was here. So it has no...previous print from Dad. It has no...memories of him, you know?" Allen nods. "And it's long and strong and made of steel. It will hold even your unhappiest memories."

"Okay," says Allen and gathers up his swords. He takes a deep breath. "Good bye to the bad memories!" he says and carried the swords up to his room.

"Good-bye," I whisper and turn back to my knitting. Upstairs I hear the sounds of Allen's footsteps, his door opening, then silence. I do not know how long it will take to transfer all Allen's bad feelings about his dad.

But it does not take long at all. In a few minutes he is back. "I did it!" he says. "Now, I don't need to feel bad about Dad anymore. They're all there in the sword. I don't need to carry them."

"Great," I say.

"But," and he grins at me with the smile that has charmed since childhood, "I kept the good memories." He touches his chest." I kept them all right here."

I nod and look down at my knitting, letting my tears fall. "I kept my good ones, too," I say. 

VOICES FROM THE EDGE: THE HERO SAYS GOOD BYE

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:3

I'd seen her on Sunday, asleep on a pile of laundry in the basement, but she failed to show up for morning milk on Monday. Butterscotch, Bonnie's orange cat who still lives with us even though his owner has married and moved, jumped up onto the table and lapped up the milk.

"Did Sugar sleep late this morning and leave all the milk to you?" I asked the cat. He gave me a mournful meow. I patted him on the top of his head and chucked him under his furry chin, in a hurry to get Ron's breakfast and medications doled out before I headed off to work. I wasn't worried; Sugar was an adventurous little cat, often exploring boxes in the basement and too busy playing to come to meals.

But she did not show up the next morning, either. Gently, I suggested to Allen that we look around for her. Perhaps she had gotten trapped in a box of Christmas garland and couldn't get out. He gave it a half-hearted attempt, going down the basement steps and calling her name for a few minutes. He came back up and shrugged. "She's not answering me," he said.

I began to worry, not only about our missing cat but about her owner, my son who lives on the upper edges of the ASD spectrum and has a difficult time processing emotions. Often, the reality of the world is incomprehensible to him. How could I tell him I feared his cat had died?

Butterscotch kept up his mournful morning meow while devouring the bowl of milk, and I tried to suggest to Allen that Sugar might not be coming back. By Wednesday, my son convinced himself that Sugar had somehow gotten out of the house. With the influx of medical personnel who cared for my husband while I was at work, it was a possibility. We began to search in the bushes and under the deck, shaking a bag of her favorite treats to tempt her out. We left food and water outside, just in case.

There was still no Sugar on Thursday, and I did a little Google searching on the habits of cats. I was comforted to know that cats have no knowledge, and therefore no fear, of death. If, as I suspected, Sugar was now over the Rainbow Bridge with my little Cocker spaniel, Taffy, she was happy and content. There was nothing I could do for her. My job would be moving Allen past the loss of his beloved pet.

Like others on the ASD spectrum, Allen finds social situations stressful. He has only a few friends, and comes home from work each day exhausted from functioning in an environment he only partly understands. His cat, Sugar, has been his companion into adulthood, serving as his confidante. If he had a tough day, Sugar could be counted on to simply curl up on his lap. Patiently, she tried to learn the tricks he thought she should know. She, unlike humans in his life, simply accepted him for who he was.

Friday there was still no sign of Sugar, but I had managed to help Allen accept three possibilities: she was hiding in the basement and only came out for food and water at night, she had fallen asleep in the basement and passed quietly away, or she had gotten out of the house and gone to join the alley cats at the fire house. The last possibility was Allen's suggestion.

On Saturday, armed with flashlights, he agreed we should conduct a full-out search. And it did not take long to find her, huddled around the heater in a dark corner of the basement. Sadly, we wrapped her in a quilt and put her in a plastic box. I carried the box to the back deck and weighted the top down with bricks.

I took a deep breath and asked Allen what he wanted to do. Bury her? Cremate her?

But Allen was still holding out slim hope. "I don't think that's Sugar," he said. "I think it's another cat who took her place."

"Okay," I said. "But we still need to take care of her."

He shrugged. "I don't care," he said. "Do what you want."

What I wanted was to have someone else handle this, but since that never works out, I called the Royal Pet Crematorium, the place that had helped me deal with Taffy's loss. I arranged to bring her down on Sunday and carried the box to my car.

Around 9 PM Saturday night, I was attempting to read--but continually thinking about the little cat that had been our friend for so long--when Allen crept quietly into the room and sat down beside me. 

"I want her ashes," he said. 

"Okay."

"And a little cylinder with some ashes, like you have for Taffy."

"Okay."

He buried his head into my shoulder. "She was a good cat," he said.

"Yes," I said. "She was."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "She was MY cat."

And our arms around each other, we cried.