Dear Mr. Blu Loukia Janavaras   © Copyright 2025 by Loukia Janavaras

Photo courtesy of the author.

The thing is if I don’t write you this letter, I feel as though you and the memory of you will just slip away. You know what they say about grief, how a person hits rock bottom at month six. Well, experience has taught me that that is both true and untrue at the same time, as unpredictable as waves in the ocean.

There’s not a day that’s gone by that I have not thought of you. How can I not think of you when we live in your home? The memory of you is everywhere—how you would sit on the bar stools at the kitchen island, supervising as I cooked, making sure I was razor focused. And there you would sit with us later at dinner every night, the three of us eating together as a family followed by joining us to watch our favorite dramas together in the solarium, almost always on the red blanket on Andrew’s lap or in front of the fireplace, atop your flokati.

You would watch me fold the laundry, each time, every crease. I was never quite sure if you were judging my work or wondering why I would waste my time with tedious tasks like loading and unloading the dishwasher. And you would sit with me in the mornings while I read on the blue chair, nestled between my fuzzy booties to keep warm. You loved the sun even more than I do, always moving with it like a sundial. I loved that you learned ‘vocabulary words’ as I liked to call them—din-din time, beddy-by time…and how you would race accordingly when you heard them. So smart. You loved your laser tag and your mouse on a wire.

Few people knew it, but you had style and very good taste. You were the hardest to buy for at Xmas—no fancy gadgets for you. You liked the simple things best and you loved Xmas with your own stocking and presents under the tree. You also had a flair for fashion, making sure I looked put together before I headed out the door with a look that said you aren’t going out in that, are you. Somehow you were always right.

We are taking good care of your home, though you would not believe how empty it feels without you in it. Those first days it was as though all the color had drained from the rooms. I couldn’t help but wonder how that could be. We’ve made only a few minor changes—added some more plants, mainly—more life to fill the space. We also got a couple of new rubber duckies and a speaker for the shower. You get the idea. Singing aloud through pouring water can fill the space, at times. Oh, and I untied the knots in my home office curtains, letting them cascade again, strings dangling and all. But we did not put up a tree or decorate for Xmas this year. I just could not bring myself to do it. It just didn’t feel like Xmas without you.

Seven. My favorite number, and my life path number. Your birthday was on the seventh, you were with us for exactly seven years and seven days, and this year we just celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary—without you. How could it be that you also left us on the seventh month of the year? I do find numerology amazing, remember, but then again, I am also writing you this letter.

There’s a saying that it’s the ones that you never saw coming that steal your heart. So fitting. When we adopted you, it was clear that we came into your life for a reason, but now I clearly know that you too came into our lives for a reason, and you added so much joy and comfort every moment of every day. We added a title to your name since you were already middle-aged when you joined us. It just seemed to fit your serious nature and as though you would agree. And then that cancer just showed up out of nowhere the way cancer does. It all happened so fast. I’m still reeling from that, asking how and why. And then people ask if we are “going to get another” as if that’s even possible.

Remember that Sunday morning in July, your last Sunday. The three of us were motionless on the king-sized bed surrounded by the hardest rainfall I had heard in years. As my torrential tears soaked the pillowcase, I couldn’t help but think the heavens were crying right along with me. I wished that moment could last forever, and you know that I don’t much care for rain.

Today, I did one of your favorite moves in one of my favorite workouts “The Dancer Pose” and wow, you should have seen me nail it. Your green eyes would have glimmered with pride at the precision tip to tip. You noticed every detail. You understood grace and balance. And grace and balance were your gift to us.

Blusters, as I always loved to call you from the get-go, and as I would always say, you’re lucky you’re a cat; it’s hard being a person. Without your gift of grace and balance, everything is just a little bit more difficult now, especially the sunny days. It’s like the lyrics in that old song I love, “I feel like some old engine that’s lost its driving wheel.” Cooking and laundry and dinner and lounging just aren’t the same without you here. I’ve resorted to talking to myself to focus on the recipes; that is, when I am not singing aloud in the kitchen to fill the space. Let’s not even mention what I’m wearing when I leave the house.

I’m not sure you have any idea just how much we loved you and how we miss you each and every day. But I believe that no matter how many multiples of seven pass, you will remain in our hearts wherever we are.