The other night I had a dream that I had Dante slung over my shoulder. I was walking on the sidewalk outside my grandma’s house where he and I had spent a majority of the pandemic alone together. I was talking to him and petting his back with my free hand and he was purring loudly in my ear. Just when I went to turn him around and cradle him in my arms like I always did, my alarm went off and I woke up on my couch in my living room in Berlin. I had tears streaming down my face. I wanted to see his face and look into his eyes so badly. I’m crying now just thinking about it.

Today is Dante’s birthday. He would have been 17 years old. I don’t really tell anyone about this, but I still cry for him every single day. I have cried for him hundreds and hundreds of days since he died. What can I say? It is total anguish for me to spend yet another day without him, and to keep crying for him. His enormous absence in my life has made everything else feel completely hollow. I don’t like it!

When I was staying with my friend Helen in Montreal a few months ago, I saw that she had a framed picture of her childhood cat who had died a few years ago. I asked Helen how she had gotten over her death, and she said, “I never really have.”

This is the second year Dante has not been here for his own birthday. Now I am alone and all I can do is remember him and dream of him. It is such a sadness to go it alone without your best friend. What I would give to spend one more day with Dante. I can tell you with certainty that none of this has gotten any easier. It has only gotten worse.