Un récit de Noùl consacrà à Bounce, oà une famille transforme le deuil en un coin lumineux, rempli de couronnes, de feuillages et de chaleur, pour rappeler que l’amour change de forme sans disparaître.
Dear little Bounce,
When I held your paw yesterday and said goodbye, it suddenly hit me how quietly you had filled every corner of our lives all these years. Maybe that’s why, when you stopped responding and lay there so gently, the emptiness rushed in so fast and so deep.
I still remember the day you arrived 15 years ago — a tiny yellow puffball bouncing your way into the living room, unable to walk properly because you preferred to hop. That’s how you got your name, Bounce. And from that day on, you followed me through everything: finishing school, starting my first job, getting married, becoming a parent. Through every move and every new home, you were our little guardian, patrolling every corner, darting around, ambushing us with your silly games.
Then, slowly, you started to settle. No more midnight zoomies, no more sudden sneak attacks — just long naps in warm sunlight. I knew you were aging. I knew you were tired. I just didn’t expect the real goodbye would come so soon.
The moment I saw your food untouched for several days, I think a part of me already understood — maybe you were preparing to find a new body somewhere among the stars and retour to us one day. The hospital visit frightened you, but for a brief moment you seemed a little better, and I let myself believe we might still have more time together.
During those days, you were still so gentle it made my heart ache.
When Emma cried, she would bury her face in your fur, and you simply stayed there, letting her hold you.
When Jack blocked your path or cheekily pulled your tail, you only stepped aside with that quiet patience of yours, never once showing anger.
You were always like that — never harming anyone, only loving all of us in your quiet, steady way.
The kids had gathered ginkgo leaves the night before and pressed them carefully between pages, planning to make you a little dress. They didn’t get the chance. So we used them as your blanket instead. You chose to leave in the golden season — trust you to stay stylish even at the very end.
The day after you left, I caught myself calling the children by your name more than once. It’s fine. I know you’re still somewhere in the house, probably watching us with that tiny bit of attitude of yours, pretending you can’t hear me.
Christmas is coming soon. Every year you’d trot over to the table trying to steal our food, even though you never ate it after you got your share. This year you’ll spend the holiday with us in a different way. I know you’re still here. I know you can see us.
Merry Christmas, my little Bounce.
When you’re ready, find your way home again.
We’ll be waiting for you — always.
Creating this Christmas memorial wasn’t just about wreaths, evergreens, or gentle light. It was about giving a family a place where loss could breathe, and where the season’s warmth could remind them that love doesn’t end — it simply shifts shape.
Bounce may no longer curl up by the tree or sneak around the wrapping paper, but his presence lingers in a way that feels almost seasonal: quiet, warm, and full of meaning. In the soft glow of Christmas lights, his memory feels less like an absence and more like a promise — that love continues, and that someday, in some form, he’ll find his way back to them.
Until then, this little Christmas Blooming Corner will keep shining for him.
For the sake of my client’s privacy, all names in this story are pseudonyms.
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