Mischievous, curious, playful, but always soft |
The strange thing about grief is that it hides in the smallest details.
A corner of the house that suddenly feels different.
A habit that no longer happens.
A sound you heard every day without noticing, until one day it disappears.
In our home, it is the sound of a small bell.
For a long time, that tiny bell followed Reem everywhere. It hung from the collar around her neck, chiming softly as she moved from one room to another. It was never loud or demanding, just a quiet reminder that she was somewhere nearby.
You don’t realise how much comfort such small things carry until they are gone.
I still remember the day we first made her wear that collar.
She absolutely refused to accept it.
The moment it went around her neck, she started running around the house in complete confusion, shaking her head, jumping, twisting, trying to catch the bell as if it were some strange creature that had suddenly attached itself to her. She looked completely ridiculous and unbelievably funny, darting through the rooms as though she had entered some personal battle with the tiny ringing thing.
And in the early days, she often won.
More than once we would find the collar mysteriously lying somewhere in the house. Somehow she had managed to remove it again, leaving us wondering how a small cat had quietly staged another successful rebellion.
A rebel in the gentlest sense of the word. She never accepted things easily or without questioning them. If something appeared in her life, a collar, a closed cupboard, a rule someone tried to enforce, she treated it like a puzzle meant to be challenged.
And yet, despite that stubborn spirit, she was never aggressive.
She was mischievous, curious, playful, but always soft.
I remember the very first moment she came home.
She was still a tiny kitten then, small enough to disappear inside the bag she arrived in. But the moment she stepped out, she didn’t hesitate even for a second. Instead, she ran straight through the house, exploring every room as if she had already decided this place belonged to her.
Her fur carried a soft light grey shade, with a faint cream warmth beneath it. The tips of her first two paws carried that same pale cream colour, as though someone had lightly brushed them with paint. Her golden eyes always seemed quietly observant, watching everything around her with patient curiosity.
Reem had a personality that made it impossible to ignore her. She loved investigating places she was definitely not supposed to investigate, dustbins, cupboards, almirahs, anything that looked remotely interesting.
She also had the remarkable habit of doing exactly what you didn’t want her to do, usually after looking directly at you as if she already knew the outcome.
She wasn’t particularly fond of constant affection. If someone tried to be too clingy, she would gently remind them that such enthusiasm was unnecessary.
But when she wanted love, she asked for it herself.
Sometimes she would jump onto your lap without warning. Other times she would simply tap you with her paw, a small gesture that felt almost like she was calling you.
And if you called her name, she would come running.
That was one of the small things that defined her. You would say “Reem,” and within seconds you would hear the faint bell approaching as she hurried toward you.
In her final days, calling her name became something else entirely.
You would still call her, out of habit, out of hope, but sometimes she no longer had the energy to come the way she always had.
That quiet change hurt more than words can explain.
Reem loved food with enthusiasm that often made us laugh. She seemed convinced that every movement in the kitchen meant something delicious might appear.
She loved windows too.
There was one where she liked to sit for long stretches of time, watching birds with deep concentration, as though the outside world had been placed there purely for her entertainment.
Now the window remains.
The birds still pass.
But the quiet observer who once watched them is not there anymore.
Loss changes a house in ways that are difficult to describe. The rooms remain the same, but something within them shifts.
Sometimes another small presence pauses by that same window now, lingering there a little longer than usual.
Reem and Zaha shared this home together.
Perhaps animals understand absence in ways we cannot easily see.
Reem left us far sooner than we ever imagined she would. Her illness arrived suddenly, turning an ordinary day into something none of us were ready for.
But before she left, she gave us something that now feels deeply precious: time.
Time to sit beside her.
Time to care for her.
Time to begin understanding that the small bell might one day fall silent.
And yet, no matter how much time we are given, the heart is never truly prepared to lose someone it loves.
Anyone who has loved an animal will recognise this kind of grief. It is quiet and often invisible to others, but deeply real. Pets enter our lives without expectations or conditions and somehow become part of the rhythm of our days.
And when they leave, that rhythm changes forever.
Even now, sometimes the mind forgets. Somewhere deep inside there is still the brief expectation that I might hear that bell again from another room.
But grief takes time to understand silence.
The house is quieter now. Not because it is empty, but because the small bell that once moved through it no longer does.
So, if there is anything I wish I could say to you, Reem, it is this.
All I ever wanted was to give you the best life we possibly could.
I hope the time you spent with us was full of warmth, comfort, and moments that made you happy, sitting by your window, exploring cupboards you were not supposed to open, waiting hopefully beside the kitchen for food you loved.
Thank you for choosing our home.
Thank you for every quiet comfort you brought into our lives.
And if there was ever a moment where I failed you in any way, please forgive me.
You will never be forgotten. Not in this home, not in the quiet corners you once claimed, not in the memories that continue to live with us.
Wherever you are now, I hope you are happy, free from pain, and living with the same curious, playful spirit that once filled this home with life.
Somewhere, I like to imagine you running freely again, chasing things only you can see, exploring new corners the way you always loved to do.
Until we meet again, Reem.