When the car headlights flash against the ceramic flowerpot, still sitting on the corner of the porch where you left it, I see your green feline eyes. Still waiting where I left them.

Whoever first said black cats were unlucky never got to meet you. Every time I cried, you found all the hurting places. Every time I kept fighting was because of the miracle within your fur night sky.

Every time you loved me, it was gently. Looking at me with slow, blinking, shamrock eyes.

Headlights of a car sputtering out. A gentle purr. A loving rumble I wish I could say I will never forget. But we are finite.

You more so than me.

Writing and photography by Hazel J. Hall.
Previously published by CLOVES Literary.

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