Sylvia Bosma is the mother of three. Her only daughter, Kaitlyn – KK – Cook, died by suicide in 2017, when she was 14 years old. Sylvia got through the initial months of crushing grief by having to care for her youngest son, who has Down syndrome. Finding her community; support groups such as The Compassionate Friends; counseling; time in nature; and words – books, podcasts, journaling, storytelling – are what has helped her get to where she can offer hope to those early in their grief. Sylvia lives in Tampa, Florida with her family, the search for her new identity and purpose a work in progress.

In memory of Kaitlyn – KK – Cook

You’re patiently waiting, tail moving almost imperceptibly. You glance my way every now and then as I go about our nightly routine. Turn off lights, plug in phone, set alarm, turn down comforter. Sliding into bed, I lie on my back and wait for you to join me. I feel you jump on, my outstretched hand ready to receive your soft, furry head. You nudge my fingers, already purring loudly in anticipation of the love you are about to receive. A minute later you crawl on top of me and settle in, your purring causing sweet vibrations in my chest and my heart. I have taken her place, have become your person.

I wonder how much of my daughter remains in your memory, nearly nine years later. She used to joke that you were her boyfriend, her future planned as the ‘cat lady’. Furry grandchildren for me, then. She would playfully admonish you whenever you did not abide by her wishes. “Young man!” she would say in a mock stern voice. You slept in her room, on her bed, just like Hootie would do before you. She was torn apart by grief when he passed, inconsolable. At age 8 she had to grieve the devastating loss of her sweet kitty, the one she had known all her life. Searching the web I saw your photo and knew you were the one to help her heart heal.

KK with Hootie 2010

You received your name, Darth Vader, a joint effort between her and her big brother, and promptly lived up to it. There were few that you allowed in your home, a mere handful of us mortals that could touch you for more than a second or two before the claws came out. Out of those few, our girl was the only one who you allowed – albeit begrudgingly – to pick you up and cuddle. Not for too long, mind you. You had standards, after all. How your name was Mr. Snuggles when we adopted you is beyond me.

She had a plan when she got you a leash. She started out in the hallway, eventually expanding the outings to explore the yard, just you and our girl. You just went along with it all. Is that what you remembered when, shortly after moving to Florida, you boldly leaped into the wild outdoors – also known as our backyard – only to realize you were not that brave after all?

Did you suddenly remember the time you escaped in the middle of a freezing Nashville winter? How terrified we were of you being lost? How I kept going outside, calling for you over and over? How, after what seemed an eternity, I heard this tiny, barely audible meow coming from the wood pile behind the house? How you didn’t want to escape my hands that time, as I gently plucked you from in between the logs and tucked you safe inside my warm winter coat?

KK and Vader 2016

And then one day it happened. Our girl took her last breath on earth. Just like that she was gone. The house filled with people, so many people. You hid in her room, away from all the noise, the wails, the crying. I, too, found refuge in her room whenever I needed to escape, lest I start to scream. I found you, alone on her bed, the space next to you devoid of her presence. I wonder if you sensed what had happened, where she went. There is so much of those early weeks that I do not remember. I wonder now if you, too, went searching all over the house for her, not finding her. I did not need to wonder whether you were grieving her. I knew. Your person was gone.

Were the months following that day a blur to you as well? Did time stand still for you, too? Whenever I went into her room to feel her close, you were there. We camped out on her bed together, huddled up with her dolphin pillow. You watched me as I wandered around her room, needing to touch the things she had touched, needing to feel what remained of her. Some months later you watched me box up my grief alongside her sketchbooks and stuffed animals, preparing for our move to Florida.

The Ancient Greek had two words for time: Chronos is what the clock measures; and Kairos is fluctuating, qualitative time. Nine years is an eternity that somehow seemed to pass in no time at all. I wonder if, after such an earth-shattering loss, our brain is incapable of experiencing Kairos for a long while. With each minute, every hour that passes, the distance grows between now and the time I last held my daughter. Chronos will happen regardless, the minutes of the clock relentlessly ticking by at a steady pace. Kairos, however, is something I can practice, be mindful about: spending my time with intention. And thus, I look forward to our nightly ritual, relishing its wistfulness.

Come on, Mr. Snuggles, time to remember our girl.