It wasn't that any one thing was particularly important, but rather that they were all so familiar.

That white food bowl—it was his favorite.

Every time I shook it, he'd dart over and twirl and jump.

I washed it several times, but in the end, I couldn't bear to put it away in the closet.

I just left it there, as if it would come back.

There were still its white fur clinging to the brush.

The last time I brushed it, it closed its eyes and leaned against my leg, motionless.

As if to say, "Go slow, I'm feeling comfortable."

The toy box was still there, with the bite marks still there.

The carrot, the ball, and the little bear he loved to toss around were all still there, but—it was gone.

And the little cushion he'd slept on all afternoon.

That sunny day, he pressed his head against the window.

I said, "I'll play with you later," but I didn't.

I packed, reminisced, and broke down.

With every item I picked up, tears fell.

I realized that some things aren't "reluctant to part with," but "utterly afraid to touch."

I knew it wouldn't come back,

but I also knew it wouldn't want me to feel this sad every day.

So I placed its photo by the dining table, where it used to eat, on the sunny spot.

It felt like it was still there—watching me, accompanying me, even if it was just an illusion.