No Hope

When Bruwyn disappeared, we went to all the local animal shelters to see if he’d been picked up.
But he hadn’t. He’d been run over and killed.
We didn’t know this, though. So every black cat we saw, I’d say “Bruwyn? Booboo?” to, and watch.
Even the ones who had been abandoned by their owners.
Some had green eyes. Bruwyn’s were yellow.
But still, I’d ask, hoping.
When we got the call from our neighbor, we knew he was gone.
I still look around the hedges and parking lots, though.
Not as much as before, but I still look.
Hoping.

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