Return to Cozy Island

When my mother passed away, one of the biggest weights on my heart before I could even think about returning to my daily life was finding a place for her cats. The younger ones were soon welcomed into new families, and the older ones went to live with local farmers, helping to keep the fields safe. But two of them, Pietro and Priscilla, were left behind—no one seemed to want them. So, I took them with me, bringing them into the small rented house where I lived during my university years.

Pietro and Priscilla were two adult cats, their coats a mix of white with patches of grey and brown. Shortly after my mother’s passing, a shadow fell over us: Priscilla’s sister also left us. The vet told us it was FeLV—feline leukemia. With a heavy heart, I decided to test Pietro and Priscilla as well, fearing the worst. The news was bittersweet: Pietro was healthy, but Priscilla had contracted the virus. To protect him, the vet advised us to keep them apart. And so, our lives rearranged themselves: Priscilla stayed with me and my boyfriend, while our landlord welcomed Pietro into his home. Their lives went on, Pietro’s perhaps a bit more adventurous than Priscilla’s. Sometimes, they would catch glimpses of each other through the window—a silent greeting across the glass, as Priscilla had to stay safely inside, tucked away from the world to protect her fragile heart and the health of others.

Once I finished university, I moved to the place I call home today. Priscilla came with me, bravely facing hundreds of kilometers by my side. She stayed with me for a few more years, a steady presence in my life. But at the beginning of 2024, her health suddenly took a turn for the worse. I didn’t catch the signs right away—my heart and mind were elsewhere, overwhelmed by the arrangements for my father’s funeral. Then, in the first ten days of February, she slipped away too.

Looking back, there’s such a strange, haunting coincidence in it all: Priscilla’s sister passed away just a few days after my mother, and then Priscilla herself followed only days after my father’s passing. It’s as if they were tied to them by an invisible thread, choosing to leave this world in the same quiet footsteps as the ones who first loved them.

Priscilla was a truly special soul—intelligent, intuitive, and so deeply expressive. When she passed, I had no intention of welcoming another cat into my life. She wasn’t just a pet to me; she was my mother’s legacy. Having her by my side made me feel protected, as if a piece of my mother was still there, watching over me even though she was gone.

A few months passed, and then, life happened: two little kittens were in need of a home. I found myself wavering, eventually letting my heart be convinced. I realized that my own grief shouldn’t stand in the way of helping two souls in need. To hold back would have been an act of selfishness, and that didn’t feel right. So, we opened our doors, and that is how Frolla and Riccia came to live with us.

Frolla and Riccia were rescued from the streets, each carrying their own little shadows and past traumas, yet they are so sweet and full of life. Riccia, in particular, is quite the shy soul; she won’t take a single step unless Frolla is there beside her, cheering her on and giving her the courage to face the world.

The reason I’m sharing all of this is to tell you that Frolla, too, is a truly special soul. As I write these words, she is right behind me, curled up in her little bed hanging from the warm radiator, fast asleep. When I’m home, she’s almost always by my side. Her colors remind me so much of Priscilla; they share so many little traits that I find myself wishing they could have met. Her gaze—even though her eyes are golden, while Priscilla’s were a deep green—brings back the exact way Priscilla used to watch me as I moved around the house. The way she moves, the way she jumps, and even that specific spot she chooses on the bed before falling asleep… she does so many things exactly as Priscilla would have done.

Perhaps these are just traits common to all cats, but I like to believe that a little piece of Priscilla’s spirit has, somehow, found its way into Frolla. I like to think it wasn’t just chance that led me to adopt her, but a gentle nudge from the universe—as if they were always meant to find me.

A comforting illusion, lasting just a few minutes, before my feet touch the ground again. But this, too, is a way of taking care of oneself: to stop, to reflect on these small things, to welcome every feeling and sensation, and then to let it all go. A small ritual of meditation like this—as painful as it may be—helps me rebuild who I was and understand who I have become.