He was a cat everyone loved.
A retriever who loved to be vacuumed
and held like an infant child.
Before he died, his brother
curled up close and groomed him,
even with no response.

Still warm and soft, we buried him
with a bowl and some fresh grass,
something to throw up in the next life.
Such a little grave, dug that morning.
It did not seem right
to dig a grave for a living thing.

Now the light is long and gold and stretches,
cat-like, across the dew damp street and grass.
It matches the changing maples.
Wind blows. Birds land. Inside the house is stillness.
  
Everywhere I touch old places,
the flat white bedspread.
No, it does not answer.
The room where we held you as you died.
The pillow you slept on for those difficult last days.
The colored towel left next to it. 
Is that dark shape my beloved friend?
No. It is nothing.

Nothing is everywhere in this house today.
Nothing is curled up on the chair.
Nothing meows to be taken outside.
Nothing wants breakfast.
Nothing is my dear small friend.
 
In the back yard, I pick two apples from the tree.
The branch lifts without the weight.
One apple on your grave. A silly gift.
Cats don't eat apples.
One thrown hard across the street,
too far for you to chase.