I take the stuffed catnip rainbow from the shelf, turning it over in my hands.
Of all the catnip toys, this was his favorite.
The memorial candles, the collars, the others’ favorite toys.
The boxes of ashes.
And a note: Their tenth lives are our memory of them.
The kittens run around, chasing each other.
Two years old, but I call them the kittens.
The older one, much older… naps in the bedroom, with his uneasy stomach.
Will he be fine tonight? Yes? No?
I reach down, his head rises to meet my hand.
Not yet, my friend. Not yet.