PeonyMagazine

  I never really noticed it before, how quiet the house feels when you’re sad. It’s not just the stillness; it’s like everything pauses, waiting for you to breathe again. The first time I cried after losing my grandmother, I remember how my  cat , Primo, stopped mid-step on the windowsill. He didn’t come rushing toward me right away. She just looked, head tilted, eyes wide, tail flicking slowly. Then he jumped down and sat beside me, his body barely touching mine, as if he knew I couldn’t handle a full embrace yet. I used to think animals loved us because we fed them, walked them, played with them. But that night, I realized they loved us because they felt us. Primo didn’t try to fix my sadness; he simply matched my quiet. His breathing softened, his purring became a low hum, and for a while, I stopped shaking. A few days later, when the house filled again with people and condolences, my dog, Toby, became my shadow. He followed me from room to room, not asking for attention, j...