On this past Sunday, I did the same thing I have always done every night after everyone else have been tucked into bed: I make my rounds to check on all our household denizens, from the big ones to the little ones. On this particular night, I found Ratney (the mouse formerly known as Midnight Legend) had passed away some hours earlier, curled up in her food bowl around a yogurt drop (if I were to be a mouse, I suppose I too would want to go while eating my favorite treat).

We knew she was getting older–especially for a feeder mouse–at a year and some months, and had slowed down a lot in the recent weeks, with tufts of gray starting to show around the edges of her face. Instead of boisterously running around and playing, she preferred snacks and cuddles, often snuggling into our hands and brushing her face against our fingers. She remained plump, perhaps slightly too pudgy, so I comforted myself that at least she is eating and should enjoy her twilight years not worrying about her weight. I then spent the last few weeks gently reminding and preparing everyone that her time may be soon, but nothing really prepares you for when it finally happens. 

I sat there, feeling dread and debating with myself if I should tell my littlest daughter now, as Ratney was her beloved pet, past her bed time which will likely be put in disarray, or if I should wait until the next morning. In the end, despite how bone achingly tired I felt, I decided to do it then because if it were me, 7 years old with very little control over my life, I’d want someone to tell me rather than withhold it for a “better” time (spoiler: there is never a better time.)

Martha’s face immediately crumpled and she bursted into tears. Adam and Sophie both sat up, and all of us went to her cage where I passed Ratney’s little body into Martha’s waiting hands. It was cold and stiff, so I know she had passed somewhere between an hour to up to twenty four hours prior. She cupped her close to her chest, small and precious, and all the things that we as adults find difficult to say, tumbled out of her mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you Ratney.”

“I wish I played with you more.”

“I should have played with her today.”

“I tried my best.”

“I’ll miss you so much.”

“I’ll never forget you.”

(Children speak from the heart, love and sorrow and regret and all.)

I found a small cardboard box, and promised we’d bury Ratney under the redbud tree she brought home and we planted together last year. We covered it in stickers and Martha then ran to her room and brought out a tiny stuffed animal, which we laid alongside crackers and Ratney on some tissue in her little make-shift coffin. 

“So she has a friend.” I said and Martha echoed between her tears.

Then she lit a stick of incense on our kamiza (where a carving of the Goddess of Mercy resides, along with pictures of our loved ones passed), bowed, and wished her an easy journey to her next destination. The next morning, she wrote a letter (the contents of which I will never know–and that’s okay, as that’s between her and Ratney) and placed it in the box. I dug a hole so it was ready when everyone came home to send her off. Martha asked if we could perform funeral rites for Ratney, having experienced the loss of Hagihara-sensei last year and having participated in it, and of course we agreed. It may seem a little bizarre to offer obligations every week for the next 49 days for a mouse, but I know it would help her process Ratney’s passing, as it did for us.

When Adam came home, tears fell again as she took the little box outside and (very) reluctantly placed it in the hole, covering it up with soil. It was almost unbearable watching her cry and tell Ratney how much she loves her over and over again, and, after we buried the little box, for her to shout goodbye on the border of hysterics. It was in this moment that I stepped in, picked her up and held her close, feeling her tiny fists bunch into my shirt as her tears smashed into my hair (my children are so independent that sometimes I forget just how little they are, but in that moment she felt infinitely vulnerable in my arms). I explained that nothing ever truly leaves us, that she just changes form–but she’ll become part of the redbud we planted, the leaves, the flowers, the fruit: all of which will transform to become something else, endlessly, back into the great universe… That it’s not goodbye–it’s see you later. That we should take the grief for what we have lost and turn it into love for what we have. 

It’s a lesson I know that my children have to learn sooner or later, and it is a lesson that doesn’t get easier (we get stronger.) I want them to still choose to love without fear, to let go without guilt, to feel their connection with everything around them knowing that we are just waves waiting to return to the ocean.

As we were walking back inside, she sniffled, looked up at me and said, “Ratney turns to compost?” and I couldn’t help but laugh as I nodded in agreement. 

“And then she becomes part of the redbud and we and the animals eat the redbud, and Ratney becomes part of all of us.” 

Her little face was almost comical as she swung between horror and incredulity before finally settling on acceptance. After a pause to digest the information, the waterworks continued and I wondered how long it would take this heartbreak to heal. I tried to remember what it was like when I was a child, losing Cinnamon the mouse and Choochoo the gerbil, Spot the bunny, Jellyfish and Munjee the cats, Sumi the shiba, or Thunder the pigeon, how long did it take me to turn those bleeding wounds into scars, into names that I will never forget, not even counting the ones that were “family” pets? It would seem I have spent my entire life practicing for loss, yet never really getting any better at it, and I felt the tendrils of fear that neither will my children.

However, some time later when she had exhausted all of her tears, in that funny familiar space of feeling emptied, she crawled into my lap, fiddled with my hair, and finally asked:

“Are redbuds tasty?” 

I gave her a playful squeeze, because children are as mysterious as they are resilient, and I knew she’d be okay. 

“Yes, my love. Very.” 

who is it that disturbs the flame of reincarnation, whispering names that i should have forgotten on the banks of the river oblivion? i light incense upon the alters of my memories, hoping it will lead you home.