Why is it so hard?

I have finished a second draft of Tiki’s story. It is tentatively titled, Tiki Learned to Trust. In order to write her story of how she was trapped, fostered, adopted and acclimated into our home I had to reference many sources. I had to dive into my twelve years long files of photos and videos documenting her life, revisit old Facebook posts and study her belongings she left behind. She had her stuffed lamb “Judy” which was the toy her foster mom sent her home with on her adoption day. She had her favorite blankets and sheets to nap on. She enjoyed chasing stick toys with snake-like string. When Tiki drew her final breath, we set up a memorial table of framed photos, her pawprints, little stuffed animals, cat figurines, Hawaiian decorations and candles. We have her ashes in a sweet little box. I got my first tattoo shortly after her passing to honor her memory, her face on my arm so that she will always be at my side. She used to sleep in bed with me. My sleep has been interrupted more so now. I still cry a lot. Sometimes I go days without doing it, but I’m still broken all over even if my eyes don’t reveal it. For years I had thought about writing and illustrating her life story or a made up story with her likeness as a different character. I just never felt ready to do it. Now she’s gone so it only feels right. I owe it to her. It sucks, though. I miss her so much. It hurts so much to relive her memories now that she’s gone because that’s all that is left. I’m grateful for them, no matter the pain. The tattoo pain I sat through nor any body aches I suffer from on the daily is nothing compared to the pain of watching her deteriorate during the final months here. Jolted into what I had been dreading…..the overwhelming bitterly cold void in the household replaced her reliably warm presence: the pitter patter sounds up and down the hardwood floors; her various meows, chirps, purrs and growls; stubborn love bites on the hands and arms following her rough licks; the adorable sound of her lapping up water then shaking her head so fast that her face would disappear into a blur; finding her whiskers and claw sheaths hidden all over the place like it was an Easter Sunday egg hunt; her litterbox treasures not kicked over as if to say, “I’m still here, but you finish up!”; the inability to cease paranoid shuffling and searching for her whereabouts in order to avoid stepping on her or running into her since she had a tendency to sit or lie in the middle of the pathway or sneak up from behind in a few seconds to see what was occurring in the other room (Mama, do you have food?)……I wish I had more years with her. Hell, I would take 30 seconds to pet her, hold her against her will, smell her fur, kiss her forehead, let her nip at my fingers and tell her I will always love her. Dammit, my eyes are revealing again.