by Joan Pedzich
I couldn't go in, couldn't open the door, for the longest time. Yesterday, I stood in the doorway noticing anew how he'd done it up in camouflage colors and Semper Fi. The cat brushed past me, wanting her old spot at the foot of his bed, where the light hits on spring mornings, and where he'd scratch her ears in a move we called the car wash. She hopped onto his taut bedspread and marched the perimeter - her own border patrol. That animal would not come out no matter how I called, or tried to shoo her. I had to leave the door open.
Joan Pedzich is a law librarian and writer from Webster, New York.