My Allergies Stayed

by Chao Wang

 

My cat died, but my allergies stayed. I woke in the dark, my face wet with snot and tears, just as it had been on the day she was put down. That day, I held her and sobbed uncontrollably, like an old father who had lost his only child. I cried twice more, once as I walked out of the hospital, and again when I got into the car. When I got home and looked in the mirror, I realized I had aged considerably.

Suddenly I felt like a character in one of those bleak prestige dramas about hard country lives. The camera begins with a wide shot: a dilapidated little courtyard, the sun going down. Then a close-up: me alone in the doorway, squatting, smoking a pipe. The old man from next door comes over and says to me, “The child is gone?” A montage. I nod. He says, “What are you going to do now?” I take a drag, sigh, and say, “What can I do? The days still have to be lived.”

Then one night, I tried to convince myself that I was living inside a video game. I requested to load an earlier save, at least one from before 2021. Back then, the cat was still alive, I was still young, and the clouds in the sky were still half-lit, half-shadowed. This went on for half the night. The response I received was 403 Forbidden.

Later on, I called the funeral home. The standard urn from the hospital was ugly enough that I asked to change the color. I also asked them not to inscribe her name on it. After all, a name is only a code. She was not Meatball, or Ms. Purrfect, or anything like that. She was a small, warm puff of fur. Now that little puff is gone, and there is a cat-shaped hole in my chest. As time passes, maybe it will heal a little. But not completely. There will still be a tiny cat-shaped hole. Which, if you think about it, is almost cute.

On an early winter morning, I might walk alone down the street. A cold wind would sweep in, piercing my chest and leaving behind a cat-shaped chill. I would place my fingers over the opening, using my body as an instrument, and play a sad song. The melody would mingle with the snowflakes, drifting and swaying through the air. Where it touched the eaves, it would turn into icicles; where it touched the branches, it would become rime. Then it would fall to the ground in a flurry, carried away by the wind.

So, this is the end. My cat is gone for good, leaving behind an urn (which is still ugly, looking like a stone block), a paw print, a tuft of fur, several hairballs, vomit stains on the carpet, a hole in my chest, and some immune cells in my blood. Those cells are attacking my system, as if they think I am part of the cat. I suppose that’s what death is like. It is neither gentle nor peaceful. It is violent and ugly. After it has raged through, the traces it leaves behind take a long, long time to fade.

 

Chao Wang is a writer living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Born and raised in Beijing, he writes fiction in English and Chinese.

 

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