I'm afraid my cat will die and I will come home to silent rooms, to still and stagnant quiet, searching vainly for my head bump hello, prodding for a pet, a pat, or a well-loved chin scratch. No gutteral purrs. No sandpaper swipes of tongue on cheek, or pawprints wet from water play. Mom says he's getting skinny. I'm afraid he'll disappear, slink in from the sides til he is nothing but air. I'll breathe him in. Live another fifteen years. I'm not ready to let go. What force is trying to unclasp my grip of tightened fist against my will? Cancer? Age? Any word from the vet? Huffing and puffing, he'll blow you down yet. How long, how long do we have to cuddle and snuggle and kiss and lick before I have to hear the heavy silence of absent paws and one clanking claw? Who will coat my clothes with coarse khaki hairs? What will we do without the alarm clock that mews? I am afraid of unused tuna juice, unconsumed. We've forgotten what it is to pee alone, far from prying feline eyes. Our laps feel empty already. I am scared of silent hallways and empty windowsills.