What We Keep When They’re Gone

by S.C.

Some kinds of love just become part of your everyday life without you even thinking about it. Then one day, you realize how much it’s changed everything.

Kirby and Marmalade were like that.

They were loving in a way that didn’t need warming up. It didn’t matter who walked through the door, whether it was someone they knew or someone completely new, they were there right away. No hesitation. You were getting greeted. You were getting love. That kind of presence stays with you.

You grow up knowing how this story ends. Anyone who’s had a pet knows that part, even if we try not to sit with it too long. You tell yourself you’ll be ready when the time comes, that you understand the deal, that one day you’re going to have to say goodbye. But you’re not ready. You’re never really ready.

Because they don’t just take up part of your life, they become part of how your life feels. The rhythm of it. The small things. The way a room changes when they’re in it. And when they’re gone, that’s what you notice most, the shift, the silence in places that used to feel full.

How they went was unexpected, and that part doesn’t really settle. There was still so much love there, still so much more we wanted to give them, and that doesn’t just disappear. It stays. It lingers. It looks for somewhere to go.

Marmalade crossed the rainbow bridge in July of 2019, and Kirby followed in October.

There’s a moment after loss that no one really prepares you for. Not the big, loud kind, the quiet one, the moment where everything is still there except the thing that mattered most. The routines keep going like nothing happened, the spaces don’t really change, and you’re left holding all this love with nowhere to put it. That’s the part people don’t really talk about.

The day they each crossed the rainbow bridge, something else happened that we still think about. We had put on a Little Bear playlist on YouTube, something they always loved. Even as they got older, it would calm them down. You could see it in how they settled, how the room felt softer when it was on.

Somehow, out of all the episodes it could have played, it chose the same one for both of them, “The Dandelion Wish.” Not something we picked, not something we were looking for, just what came on.

If you’ve seen it, you know the feeling. Soft fields, flowers drifting in the wind, everything moving gently like the world is taking its time. It didn’t make anything easier, but it felt like something. Not an answer, just a moment that stayed.

That moment stuck with me in the kind of quiet way things do when they’re not finished with you yet.

In 2020, we adopted Joby and Tanuki. Not as replacements, because that’s never what this is, but because the house still had that space in it. That need for movement, for warmth, for something that meets you at the door again. They brought something new with them, their own personalities, their own routines, their own way of being in the world, but they also carried something forward, that same kind of love.

Six years later, that feeling is still there. It never really went away. We’re still mourning Kirby and Marmalade. Not in a way that takes away from the life we have now, but in a way that stays with you.

That’s when I reached out to Kaylynn (Mourning Flora).

I told her about Kirby and Marmalade, about Little Bear, about that episode, about all of it, and sent her a reference image. What she created in return is something I still don’t really have the words for. It feels intentional in a way you can see immediately.

Mourning Flora created a memorial piece for me using deeply personal materials, small fragments of a life once lived, and turned it into something I can hold onto in a different way. Not something that replaces, just something that remains.

Kaylynn has been creating since she was young, moving through mediums like drawing, painting, photography, sculpture, hair, and floral design, and you can feel that range in her work. It’s not one lane, it’s everything she’s explored, finding its way into what she creates now.

What started in 2018 with mining her own crystals and turning them into jewelry grew into something more hands-on and sculptural. Preserved terrariums, gathered natural materials, moss, fungi, florals, even animal remains, all of it rooted in the same idea she’s been building toward, bringing together the softness of nature and the reality of death.

That balance is what makes her work feel the way it does. It’s not just about making something beautiful. It’s about holding two truths at the same time, what was, and what’s left behind.

I asked her how she approaches creating something tied to loss, how she handles that weight.

She told me, “For memorial pieces, I like to think I am helping the individual take a step in releasing the pain. While it may never be fully healed, I believe carrying a piece of your lost companion is a great way to transmute a negative experience into a beautiful memory.”

When it comes to knowing when a piece is finished, she said there are technical things she considers, but it ultimately comes down to something more instinctive.

“Balance, flow, proper use of negative space, making sure the piece is aesthetically pleasing… but more than anything, it’s about my feeling towards the piece. Is this something I am proud to put my name on? Would I be drawn to this piece if someone else had created it? Would I proudly wear or display this piece of artwork in my home?”

Intuition, she told me, guides that process more than anything else. The way she sees her work stuck with me the most.

“I see my work as honoring life. And showing respect to natural life cycles. Death is an unavoidable part of life, and it doesn’t have to be gruesome and feared.”

Then she said something that felt like it put everything into place.

“I see my work as giving life a second chance. Honoring what was lost and respecting the natural world. I see it as alchemy.”

Somehow, that’s exactly why it felt right for Kirby and Marmalade.

When I look at the piece now, I still get a little sad, and that part doesn’t really go away, but there’s something else there too. Something quieter. Something that feels like peace.

Like they’re still out there somewhere, just beyond reach, moving through fields of flowers the same way they used to settle into those episodes. Calm. Safe. Exactly where they’re supposed to be.

We don’t really have many rituals for this anymore. Not real ones. Not ones that feel personal. Everything moves too fast. Even grief sometimes feels like it’s supposed to have a timeline, but it doesn’t.

Maybe the goal was never to let go completely. Maybe it’s just to find a way to carry it.

Some people keep photos, some keep collars, toys, little things tucked away in drawers. And some people find something like this, something that doesn’t replace what was lost but acknowledges it. Something that says this mattered. They mattered. They’re still part of this.

Mourning Flora doesn’t just create art, she created something that helps me hold onto Kirby and Marmalade in a different way. Not something that replaces them, just something I can carry with me. We still have that love every day with Joby and Tanuki. The grief never really leaves, but this gave it somewhere to rest.