We named her Alice B. Toklas. She was a small, orange tiger striped kitten that my youngest daughter adopted at a county fair. She’d been rescued by two teenage girls and was curled tight against three other strays in a blanket-lined box. Claire saw them first: “Free Kittens” the hand lettered sign read.

 

“Oh Mommy, look! They’re giving away kittens.” She tugged at my jacket and pulled me toward the box. “Can we have one, Mommy?”

 

She knelt down to examine the kittens. Her older sister joined her. They were all mewing loudly, their orphaned legacies apparent in scrawny, hungry bodies. Each girl held one out for me to see. “Can we take one Mommy? Can we? Please, Mommy.”

 

Just a few weeks before, our lives had been marred by tragedy. My husband, their father, had died in a drowning accident. We still were reeling from the loss, and I was in shock at becoming a single parent. I wasn’t eager to have something else to feed and care for.

 

But I gave in, mustering up all the rationale I could for adding a cat to the family menagerie, which, until now, included a low maintenance goldfish and anti-social hamster named Joe. A pet would be good for the girls, I told myself; it might soften the ache of loss. A short time later, we drove home with a small kitten peacefully snoozing in Claire’s lap.

 

Alice wasn’t the girls’ first choice for a name, but in return for adopting her, I bargained for naming rights, bestowing the full name of Alice B. Toklas on the tiny kitten, as if having a significant literary moniker would somehow strengthen her.

 

She never had the chance to grow into her name. Two days after the fair, the kitten awakened listless and ill. We raced to the veterinarian’s office. Alice lay limply in Claire’s arms, her breathing shallow and labored. My daughters’ faces were etched in worry.

 

The doctor confirmed my worst fears. Alice was dying. She told us it wasn’t uncommon for stray kittens like Alice to become ill. She told us there was nothing she could do. It was too late.

 

The girls’ faces crumpled, and they began to cry loudly. I held them in a tight, motherly embrace.

 

“I’ll give you all a few minutes alone with Alice,” the doctor said softly. She was obviously experienced in the matter of children and their pets. She quietly left the examination room. I wiped the tears from my daughters’ faces.

 

“Oh Mommy, why does she have to die?” Claire looked at me with a tear-streaked face and bargained. “She’s not dead yet. Maybe the doctor can give her some medicine. Maybe she ‘ll get better.”

 

“No baby,” I said. “Alice is not going to get better. We have to say goodbye.”

 

 “But what will they do with her, Mommy?” Four teary eyes bore into mine.

 

“They will help her go to sleep,” I said, “the doctor will take care of her.” I was failing miserably at explanation. The girls cried even more loudly.

 

“Then what happens, Mommy?” Claire asked.

 

I hesitated, took a deep breath and replied, “Alice will be cremated.” Silence filled the room.

 

Both girls looked at me, confusion registering on their faces. “Wh-wh-what’s cremated?”

 

I was at a loss. How could I explain cremation in a way that wouldn’t upset them even more? I was momentarily saved by the doctor’s knock on the examination room door. She entered and gently took the kitten’s small body in her arms. “It’s time to tell Alice goodbye,” she said.

 

 

“Goodbye Alice,” both girls cried.

 

 “I love you Alice,” Claire sobbed.

 

I ushered them out of the office and to the car. They were a pitiful sight, their eyes red and swollen, their weeping unabated.

 

“Mommy, what does it mean that she will be cremated? What will happen to Alice?”

I began my rather clumsy attempt at explanation, but I succeeded only in making them cry more. I tried different approach. “How about we go get some ice cream and talk about it?”

 

“Oh-oh-O.K.” they sniffed. Claire leaned forward from the back seat. “Ca-ca-can I have a butterscotch sundae, Mommy?”

 

“Sundaes it will be,” I answered cheerily. I drove to the nearest ice cream shop.

 

My detailed lesson on cremation took place over butterscotch and hot fudge sundaes in a red vinyl booth in the shop. Calmed by the sundaes, the girls listened attentively.

 

“What do people do with the ashes?” Claire asked.

 

I explained that sometimes, ashes were scattered in locations the dead person especially loved; other times, they might be kept in small urns as a remembrance.

 

For a few moments, the rhythmic clink of spoons against glass dishes was the only sound. Claire spoke first. “Well, when I die and get cremated,” she began, the hint of a smile on her lips. We stopped eating to listen. “I want my ashes placed in a small cereal bowl.” She grinned and spooned more ice cream into her mouth.

 

“What did you say?” Her sister’s spoon was suspended over her sundae.

 

I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “Why would you choose a cereal bowl, honey?”

 “Because,” she said matter of factly, “people will remember me and what I liked best.

They will look at the cereal bowl and say, Claire Bray-Collins died happy: she was eating.”

 

I felt our spirits grow lighter. We laughed uproariously at the thought Claire’s ashes in a cereal bowl sitting atop our mantle. As I watched my daughters finish their sundaes, I was grateful. We’d suffered a small loss in the midst of a much greater one that day, but suddenly I knew we would be all right. Our lives would go on. They would most certainly go on.

 

Alice B. Toklas, our briefly beloved kitten, may you rest in peace.