See You In The Sunbeams

The boy sat beneath the old oak tree, its branches bare against the winter sky.

Beside him, though he could not see her anymore, he felt the presence of his cat.

"I don't know how to say goodbye," he said.

"Maybe you don't have to."

"But you've died. You're not coming back."

"That's true," said the cat gently. "I have died. But love doesn't, does it?"

The boy thought about this. "Mum cried too. She said it's alright to be sad."

"Your mum is very wise."

"I feel angry sometimes. Is that wrong?"

"Feelings aren't right or wrong," said the cat. "They just are. Like weather."

They sat quietly together, the way they always had.

"I made something for you," the boy said, pulling out a small decorated box. "A memory box. There's a photo of you inside, and your collar, and a drawing of the day we met."

"Tell me about the drawing."

"You were so tiny. You fitted in my coat pocket."

"I remember. You were warm."

"You were soft."

The boy smiled, then his face crumpled. "I miss you terribly."

"I know. Missing is just love with nowhere to go."

"Where does it go?"

"It stays. It changes into memories. Into kindness. Into all the ways you'll love other creatures because you learned how from me."

"Dad says we might plant a tree for you in the spring," said the boy. "A cherry tree."

"I'd like that. Something that blooms."

A leaf tumbled across the grass between them.

"My teacher gave me a book about saying goodbye to pets. The boy in it felt just like me."

"That's the thing about grief," said the cat. "It feels lonely, but you're never truly alone in it."

"Some friends asked if we'll get another cat."

"And?"

"You're not replaceable."

"No one is," said the cat warmly. "But when the time is right—and only you'll know when—you might love another cat. Not instead of me. As well as me."

"Really?"

"Love doesn't run out. It multiplies."

"Will you be lonely?" asked the boy.

"Will you?" asked the cat.

"I'll miss you terribly."

"Missing and lonely aren't quite the same thing," said the cat. "You can miss someone and still feel them with you. I'll be in every sunny spot you see, every purr you hear, every soft thing you touch."

The boy thought about this. "You always loved sunbeams. You'd follow them across the floor."

"I'd move three times every afternoon, tracking the light."

"And I'll keep doing that, in a way," said the cat. "Every time you see a sunbeam, I'll be there."

The boy was quiet. "I still have bad dreams sometimes."

"Your heart is working things through," said the cat gently. "But if the sadness feels too big, you can ask for help. That's not giving up on me—it's taking care of you. And I'd want that."

"I wrote you a letter. I told you about all my favourite things about you."

"What a perfect letter that must be."

The boy wiped his eyes. "Thank you for being my cat."

"Oh, dear boy," said the cat, "you had that backwards."

"What do you mean?"

"Thank you for being my person."

"It's alright to remember the happy bits, isn't it? Even though I'm sad?"

"It's more than alright. Sadness and happiness can exist in the same heart. That's what it means to have loved someone."

"I love you," said the boy.

"I know," said the cat. "I always knew."

The wind moved through the bare branches.

"What was your favourite thing?" asked the boy. "About us?"

"That's easy," said the cat. "Every single morning, when you woke up, the very first thing you did was look for me. And every single morning, there I was. That was my favourite thing. Being the first thing you looked for."

"You still are," whispered the boy.

"I know," said the cat. "I always will be."

The boy stayed under the tree as the light faded. When he finally stood to go home, he held the memory box close.

He looked back once at the tree.

"See you in the sunbeams," he said.

And somewhere—in the way the last light caught the branches, in the warmth still tucked inside his heart—the cat purred.

---

For Reese

2016–2025

"What is the bravest thing you've ever said?" asked the boy.

"Help," said the cat.

"And the hardest?"

"Goodbye," said the boy.

"But you haven't said it yet," said the cat.

"I know," said the boy. "I'm practising for when I'm ready."

For everyone who has loved and lost a gentle friend.

They stay with us, always, in the soft places.

---

A Note for Grown-Ups

When helping children through pet loss:

Be honest about death—confusing words don't protect them, clarity does.

Let them see your sadness too. It shows them their feelings are normal.

Create together: memory boxes, drawings, letters to their pet, planted trees.

Keep daily routines steady when everything else feels wobbly.

Listen fully. Their grief is real and deserves your complete attention.

Don't rush towards a new pet. No one is a replacement.

If deep sadness, nightmares, or isolation persist, seek help from someone who understands grief.

Most importantly: let them feel everything. Sadness is just love with nowhere to go, and that love matters.