Touch the ground tentatively with the whole palm as if patting the small of a back, or a small back. Scratch at it so the soft hairs fall away. Let grass give way to digging hands I sit watching, not watching. Turn sore-skinned face down, in self-shade from the sun. Hear hard soil pitter-patter like tiny feet landing lightly back onto the box sealed tightly—so tightly that the cat resting on his sky blue cushion inside, below, once and at once short-lived and forever friend, might once again be alive.

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