you turn away, watching the world around us that rarely changes. but you scan, ears forward, until you slink into your paws. sounds—creaks or the starting of a new lullaby replayed yet again—shake you up, waiting to pounce or scurry.
now I know you find comfort in my comfort, in being close enough to guard but not too close to not dart if called by some noise or internal timer I never hear ticking. you are my cat mother: five-times-over a lady now, giving proximity and concern and warmth as nourishment for me, your lonely kit.
you’d rather I rest my hand on you than guide it through your fur, over the dormant springs under your fluff. you love through awareness, through being known and heard and seen and not forgotten, as though you fight with not having a choice in losing your Castor. and I am sorry, and you know it, and we mourn to be able to move on while staying fully still.