When I was 5 years old my cat died. His name was Wisk and he was a beautiful orange kitty. He had gotten hit by the family car because he liked to greet us every day when we came home, and it was my job to get out of the car and move him out of the way every time we came home. The day that my mom accidentally hit him with the car I wasn't there.
My mother stayed up all night with him in the little makeshift bed we had made for him in the living room, hoping that maybe, at least in my mind, he would get better. But that night he died, and he was in pain. So much pain that he bit my mom hard when he passed and she had a wound on her hand.
I was so sad for him but I mostly remember being jealous. Jealous that my mother got to be there when he left. Jealous that she had proof on her that he existed, and that she was there for him in the moment when it mattered the most to be with him.
Now I know what it's like to be there, and to have wounds from someone's pain, and to have shared that beautiful experience.
You do get to wear it. It is something that will always be there, as proof that they existed, that that moment mattered, and that you're still here to tell the story.
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