April 28, 2002

Dear Raisen,

     As usual, I'm thinking about you, again. It happens every spare moment that occurs inbetween doing something. It happens, especially, every time I walk into the kitchen. I'm so used to you sitting at the sink, watching me, and waiting for me to turn on the faucet for you so that you can have a drink. I'm so used to leaving the water running at a dribble rate for you.
     It happens again in the bathroom, where I'd do the same thing at the sink for you, there.
     It happens again when I want to take a shower, and you're not there sticking your paw under the door to remind me to let you in; and you're not there sitting on the sink counter, waiting for me to finish my shower.
     It happens again whenever I'm driving, and I notice that you're not there, sitting on the armrest right next to me - watching everything go by.

     It happens whenever I get ready for bed, too. I expect you to come "thromping" down the hallway, into my bedroom, hopping up on my bed, waiting and watching while I get ready to hop into the covers.
     It happens when I lay my head on the pillow and turn out the light. You're not there on my chest...kneading and purring, and offering me affectionate head butts, and finally laying down right there with your face in front of mine. Eventually, I'd want to turn over on my side and, in a regular routine, you'd move over to the edge of the pillow by my face - where I'd always turn it slightly, and leave room for you. You'd always lay down there, on the other half of the pillow, facing me, and purring. And always, just before we'd both fall asleep, I'd pet you with gentle strokes on the side of your face, and say, "I love you, Sweetheart," softly as I could. In response, you'd always reach your little paw forward, grab a couple of fingers on my hand, and squeeze them gently... just once ... and release.
     That was the bedtime routine we had - that now is no longer there.

     I miss how you'd sit up straight and watch me whenever I'd walk into a room. Always with such an anxious look of "HI, Daddy!" upon your face.

     You were so much the opposite of your mother, Muffy. Unlike her, you never yelled complaintively - and irritatingly - whenever you wanted something. You actually treated me like I treated you: like I was intelligent. You'd never say a word. You'd just look at me, then you'd look at the object that you wanted, and then you'd look back at me, again. It wasn't hard to figure it out. You were so easy to understand, while rarely having to actually speak ... unless you were really excited or happy about something. We treated each other with respect, and with admiration. You were such a good, smart little girl - and I was always so very proud of you, and who you were, and what you had become, and of all the things you knew and understood, and of course, of how beautiful you were.