I lie on the floor beside her bed. “Athena? Daddy’s here, baby.” I crane my head to look into her eyes. She is with me.

“Do you hear your birdies outside? Do you want your birdies?” She is with me.

I lay my iPad on the chipped coffee table and select a vivid bird video that fills the room with chirps. We can no longer make the trip to the window. My mother carries the burial gown, a red felt blanket, to me and places it over my chest as I slide an arm beneath Athena and cradle her to my chest, wrapping her shrinking body. She is with me.

I cup her head with my left hand and lift it toward her birdies for the last time. She is with me. A bluebird dances before her blue-green eyes as I stare at the chipped table. I count her heartbeats. She is preparing to leave.

I stroke the body that has lain beside me as I have thrown up on this chipped table during my chemotherapy. I sit on the floor with her. I don’t know how I will get up again. You do these things for your babies. I tell her she can go now.

My body has existed in this room for eight years, propped on the couch with oxygen; a patch of the sky, the trees, and the grass flicker outside. For eight years, I existed. I did not live. We sat in this room with her looking at the sky and bringing it to me as she lay on my chest as oxygen breathed years into my lungs. I feel her press her tiny head to my chest once more. “Daddy’s okay, baby. You can go, sweetheart.”

Living is to feel that first tickle of air on your face when you roll outside your apartment for the first time in months. Living is the soul protecting my spirit all those years as Athena sat quietly watching television with me as my strength returned. Living is sitting on the couch with her after teaching for eight hours as I share my bits of chicken with her. Living is sitting on the sofa in silence without needing to speak. Her blue-green eyes always said something to me that I never could bring myself to ask: Athena, do you believe in Heaven?

I hold her tightly with my mouth to her ears as she takes three quick breaths, “Daddy loves you.” Her body is still in my arms, surrounded with red felt as a howl erupts into the room. I can’t look into her deep eyes that always seemed to say, “Daddy. I love you,” without losing something I spent years trying to keep alive: my spirit.  Oh, my heart is flying away with her.

She has left.

My mother sprinkles Holy Water on her body. “Our Father Who Art in Heaven, Hallowed Be Thy Name” comes from my mother’s lips as she places an arm around us. “Grandma loves you, angel. Daddy loves you. God, please help this baby on her journey.”

The room becomes still as eight years of my illness hover around this chipped coffee table. Three bodies remain. If a cat has no soul, why is the room so empty?

I see the blue outside the window I looked out for years. The room we both looked out. The iPad continues to play over the sounds of Athena’s birdies. We both fought so hard. I raise my eyes to the screen. A cardinal appears. We look at the screen. This is how a soul gently leaves.

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Jonathan (he/him) is a Chicago-based writer, actor, and educator. After years of teaching English and Theatre to middle and high school students, his life took a turn in 2015 with a rare neuromuscular diagnosis. He now explores disability, LGBTQ+ identity, and the emotional and physical terrain of living with chronic illness—sometimes moving through the world with a wheelchair, walker, cane, or unassisted. His creative work includes the prose-poetry chapbook A Silent Love Letter and his Substack newsletter, Unfolding Hope. His writing has been featured in Echo Theatre Collective, Dreamers Magazine, FLARE Lit Magazine, and The Orange Rose Literary Magazine. He tells his stories to help both himself and others feel less alone as their stories unfold. He is a proud uncle and cat dad.