**Diary Entry January 15th**
It happened in the dead of winter, the coldest snap wed had in years. Snow lay knee-deep, the air sharp as a knife, and the wind cut so deep it hurt to breathe.
Our village was small, tucked away in the countryside, nearly deserted by then. Most had moved to the cities to be near their children, or else passed on. Only those with nowhere left to go remainedmyself included.
After my husband died and the children flew the nest, the house felt hollow, inside and out. The walls, once alive with voices, fell silent. I kept the fireplace burning, cooked simple mealssoup, porridge, eggs. Id leave breadcrumbs on the windowsill for the birds. Time was spent with booksold ones, well-read, their pages dog-eared from years past. Rarely did I turn on the tellytoo much noise, too few words.
In the quiet, I began to hear the house sighing in the wind, the blizzard howling down the chimney, the floorboards groaning under the frost.
Then *she* appeared.
A scratching at the door. I thought it might be a magpie or the neighbours cat. But the sound was differentweak, desperate, as if whatever made it had no strength left. I opened the door, the cold hitting me like a slap. And there, in the snowdrift, a small black shapemore shadow than creature.
Not a cat, not quite. But those eyesbright gold, like an owls. Fixed on me. Not pleading, but defiant. As if to say: *Ive come this far. Take me in or turn me away. But I cant go on.*
One front paw was missing, the stump rough with scar tissue. Her fur was matted with burrs and dirt, ribs jutting sharp beneath. God only knew what shed endured to reach my doorstep.
I hesitated, then stepped out. She didnt flinch. No hissing, no curling into a ball. Just a slight tremor as I reached for her. I lifted herlighter than a featherand carried her inside. *She wont last the night*, I thought. But I laid her by the hearth on an old blanket, set out water and bits of chicken. She didnt touch them. Just lay there, breathing slow and laboured, as if each inhale took effort.
I sat beside her. Watched. And then it struck meshe was like me. Worn, wounded, but still here. Still *holding on*.
For a week, I nursed her like a child. Ate my meals beside her so she wouldnt feel alone. Talked to herabout my day, my aches, my husband, whom I still called for in my dreams. She listened. *Truly* listened. Sometimes shed open her eyes, as if whispering: *Im here. Youre not alone.*
After days, she drank. Then licked porridge from my finger. Later, she tried to stand. Stumbled, fell. Tried again. And again. Until she could walklopsided, unsteady, but walking.
I named her Marigold. Because what else could you call such a thing?
From then on, she followed me everywhere. The garden, the shed, the pantry. Slept at the foot of my bed, and if I stirred, shed give a soft *mrrp?**Still with me?* And when I wept, especially at night, shed press close, her golden eyes steady on mine.
She was my healing. My mirror. My reason.
Mrs. Wilkins from next door only shook her head. *Elizabeth, have you gone mad? Strays are ten a penny. Whats the use of this one?*
How could I explain? That this broken, black-furred creature had *saved* me? That since she came, Id begun to *live* again, not just exist?
Come spring, shed bask on the porch, chase butterflies. Learned to runon three legs. Clumsy at first, then swift. Even hunted once, proudly presenting a mouse before curling up to nap.
Once, she vanished for a day. I near tore the village apart searching. At dusk, she reappearedscratched, triumphant. Perhaps settling old scores. Slept for three days after, barely stirring.
She lived with me five years. Not just survived*lived*. With her quirks, her moods. Loved buttered oats, hated the hoover, hid under the quilt during stormsor burrowed against my side if I was near.
Age took her quickly. That last year, she seldom went outside. Slept more, ate less, moved with care. I knew the end was near. Yet every morning, Id checkstill breathing? And if so, I gave thanks.
One spring dawn, she didnt wake. Just lay by the hearth, as always, eyes closed. I knelt, touched herstill warm. But my heart knew.
The tears didnt come at once. I stroked her, whispering, *Thank you, Marigold. You were everything. Without you, neither would I be.*
Buried her under the old apple tree, where shed napped in summer shade. A shoebox lined with flannel. A quiet goodbye. A true one.
Three years now. Another cat shares my homestriped, young, bold. Nothing like her. But sometimes, at dusk, Ill catch a black shadow near the threshold. Or hear a familiar rustle.
Then I smile.
Because I know: shes still with me. Part of me. My Marigold.
If youve ever had a Marigold of your ownshare their story in the comments.
