Basie was the best boy.
Seven years ago, he and Ella came into my life so small—just fragile little things—and somehow, they both grew into a steady presence that made every day feel anchored. Years passed, but Basie’s place never changed.
In the mornings, before the world fully woke, he would find his way into my lap while I read and prayed. Quietly, as if he knew that was where he belonged. In those moments, it always felt like he was part of the prayer itself—peaceful, present, content just to be near me.
At night, he would settle behind my back, close enough that I could feel him there, as if making sure I was not alone in the dark hours. And in the morning, without fail, he would greet me with gentle kisses, like the day was something worth celebrating simply because we were in it together.
Basie was more than a cat. He was a daily comfort, a familiar warmth, a faithful little shadow who chose closeness over distance every single day.
Now there is a gaping silence where he used to be. A space that still belongs to him.
But love like his doesn’t leave. It lingers—in habits, in memories, in the quiet moments when I expect him to be there and almost feel him anyway.
Basie was the best boy.
And he always will be.
Mommy loves you, my sweet boy.
