Unsolicited Testimony

People don’t like to talk about death. After seeing more of it over the course of my life, I find it strange. It makes things harder when you are struggling with the concept of mortality. When you know there are numbers on your forehead counting down your days on earth, and that reality is suddenly forced into your space. Everyone has a countdown. Everyone.

My mom’s dad had been very sick. After my grandma passed, my grandpa suffered a stroke within a couple of weeks, and it took him a long time to get to a place where he could go home. But he was never the same.

My mom and her siblings took on the bulk of caring for him as he became progressively more agitated with everything. I don’t really blame him.

In July 2023, I was in Brazil. I had just spent a few days in Rio — enjoying too many caipirinhas, watching futbol, taking in all the food and sights we could. Our next adventure was taking us to the Pantanal to find jaguars, a big cat I had not yet seen in the wild.

We took a flight from Rio to São Paulo, a deceptively long flight, then boarded a smaller plane to the Amazon. I was on the tarmac, waiting for takeoff, when I got a text from my mom. Grandpa had passed.

It was peaceful, thankfully. He was surrounded by family. I asked my mom if I should come home, but she said no, there was nothing for me to do, and grandpa wouldn’t want me to stop living my life. How was I supposed to keep living my life right now?

It was time for takeoff. The cabin was dark. I turned my head toward the window and tried not to cry, but it was coming anyway. A flight attendant noticed. He tried to tell her I was fine, just bad news. She brought me a free wine.

The flight was only about four hours. I cried the whole time. I was embarrassed, but I couldn’t stop. When we landed, I had calmed enough to get through the airport, into the too-small Uber, and to the hotel. He had planned for us to go out and walk around, but he knew. He knew I couldn’t. He went out to bring something back while I stepped into the shower and cried, in the middle of the Amazon.

The next day, we boarded a bus to the Pantanal. I was hopeful, but still sad. We spotted some animals along the way, including a pair of brilliant red macaws. When we arrived at the lodge, we went out on our first search for jaguars. I remember how peaceful it was, being out on the water in the dark, watching the stars. I dipped my fingers over the side of the boat and felt the river’s cold. The sun had faded behind the trees. All you could hear was the motor and the water.

When we returned to the dock, I was near the back — nearly the last one off the boat. There was a kitten on the dock, maybe two or three months old. White, with a little gray face and blue eyes. I think it was a she. She watched all the other guests disembark, then saw me, rubbed against my leg, and followed me back to my room.

I wasn’t sure if she was allowed inside, so I hesitated. But she cried and cried at the door, so I let her in. My brain was tired. Emotionally drained. The kitten curled up next to me and purred so hard I could feel it.

I thought about how the universe sometimes knows what you need. Somehow, she knew I needed the warmth. Each night at that lodge, the little kitten waited for me and followed me back to the room. It was hard to say goodbye to her when it was time to move on.