Sushi

There was something about the way Sushi existed in the world. A calm intelligence. A beautiful stillness. She didn’t need to be held to feel close, and she didn’t need reassurance to feel secure. She was independent, certain of herself, almost human in her awareness. She didn’t follow — she chose.

She came into my life when she was only four months old, impossibly tiny and fragile, yet already complete. From the very beginning, she carried herself like someone who knew exactly who she was. She liked her space. But the bond we shared lived somewhere deeper. We didn’t need fuss to feel connected. We sat together in silence — long stretches of stillness that felt like bliss. Two beings resting in the same frequency.

Every morning, before the day fully arrived, I woke her the same way. Softly. Gently. By singing to her.
You are my sunshine… my only sunshine…

It became our ritual — my voice, her slow blinking eyes, her graceful stretch, the little kiss. The quiet promise of another day together. She really was my sunshine — the steady kind that lights everything it gently touches.

As she got older and shed her baby hair, her beautiful silver and gold coat caught the light in a way that felt unreal. Silky, lush, impossibly shiny. Her eyes were large and soulful, round with depth, holding entire conversations without sound. If you looked long enough, you felt seen. Truly seen.

Her water bowl had to be just right. Fresh. Always. Anything less was unacceptable, and she made sure that truth was known. It was one of her quiet rules — delivered with a look that said, you know better. And I did.

Sushi was also quietly extraordinary in ways that still make me smile. She had a natural presence — calm, attentive, unbothered — and it carried her onto the stage. She starred in a small theatre company’s production, once as Bruiser in Legally Blonde and once as Toto in The Wizard of Oz. She took it all in stride, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Of course, I was the proudest mama.

We spent almost fifteen years together. Years filled with quiet routines, shared adventures, and a love that carried us both through so many ups and downs. She was my pride. My joy. My child. The reason my days had shape and meaning. She was the air I breathed.

The final years were different.

Sushi was very sick — her heart, her kidneys — and time became something we learned to hold carefully. Each day felt both terrifying and precious. Any day could have been the day I lost her, and yet… each morning she was still here. Still choosing. Still present.

Those years were bittersweet in the truest sense. Heavy with fear, yes — but also filled with a deep, aching gratitude. I was given more time. Not all at once, but one day at a time. And I learned how to live inside that agony: loving her fully while knowing how fragile the moment was.

When she finally left — the night she fell asleep beside me and never woke up — the grief cracked something open that never closed again. Some loves don’t leave empty spaces — they leave entire worlds behind.

And yet… she didn’t disappear.

Now, she feels like a presence that lives just beyond reach. In the stillness. In the pauses between breaths. In the quiet moments where memory softens the ache just enough to breathe again.

Sometimes, when the light hits just right, I still hear that song — not sung aloud anymore but felt. A warmth. A reminder.

I imagine her somewhere gentle. Resting. Watching. Waiting without urgency. Existing the way she always did — calm, complete, unbothered by time.