It's been four months now.

I've finally cobbled together enough dried flowers to properly set you up; I'm sorry it's taken as long as it did. Given how much you enjoyed being outside, I hope this can bring that sunlit joy inside for you always.

Somehow, the tears haven't dried up. I thought perhaps this might finally be the time I could type to you and not cry.

My hands trembled today as I moved you and arranged the dried flowers around you. I thought that I wouldn't, and yet.

I've begun to worry. I worry that I've tried to push my memories of you down so I can stop feeling so sad, that I'm losing what I had of you. I worry that I'm moving too fast. I worry that I'm moving too slow.

I've begun looking at adoptions, not because I'm done grieving or that I'm actually ready to bring another cat into my life. I'm not. Sometimes I see a kitten being given away and I feel that maybe this might be a salve for the lonliness that hits late at night, that I might be able to care for another without comparing them to you, without wanting them to be you. But then I come to my sense and accept that by thinking that at all, I've proven to myself that I'm not actually ready.

I just want you to know that I'm not ready.

I want you to know that I love you. That I miss you still. That I still cry for you sometimes. That I fear I'm letting you go too fast and too slow.

I don't want to let you go, Baby Fluff.