I think I’ll take my scooter today to pick up my cat.  Drive him around with the air rushing through his fur.  He’ll sit on the back, safely clawed into the seat.  I’ll put little kitty goggles on him so he can see the bright new spring day from his magical perch.  The sun will be at his back.  He’ll spy hundreds of new hunting grounds and yeowl when we drive through the fresh fish market.

Oh but wait.  He’s no longer a cat.  He’s ashes.  And what I’ll be picking up is a tiny strongbox with dust.

Amazing how that phrase just opens the floodgates of tears.  Missing such a tiny fur-covered bag of bones.  Glazed eyes still searching for the morsel of food that might fall from the cutting board, even as his hind legs fold his slight frame to the floor.  Sweet friend who tolerated our barely sufficient constant care.  We are grateful for the time you deigned us your soft curled up warmth on our laps.  We will always tell your stories of torturing the big dog, swiping our potato chips and yelling when you were hungry.

Mayor of the neighborhood, you still hold office in my heart.  I claim your presence in spite of your absence.  And cherish the love you brought that now aches in my chest, opening my heart even more.