Clouds form behind doors, deep-set in hills, like eyes in brows. Hums leak from edges, cause ripples of air, like heat on roads. I’m drawn to it. Blood pressure infused with gravity, it weighs on me heavy silence, like thick-laid snow. Words wait there, I’m sure; snared and bear-trapped, deathly glow, laced with poison, rigged to blow.

I wish one time you’d scratched me, and left a mark I could look back on. But you never scratched, did you? Your mommy kept your nails short so that even when you greeted us at the door – both paws stretching up onto our thighs – or when you clambered onto my shoulders – tail swishing, always purring at your efforts; that funny little parrot-dog you were – the only marks you left were on my heart, and in your tiny trails of mischief; knocking greeting cards to the floor so you could put them under your feet and skate about. What cat does that? What cat trusts so wholeheartedly, stretches full-length, draped across his mama’s belly and chest, arms raised, ‘asking a question’, his own belly exposed, toes pointed, and falls asleep in that position as the rubbery hums take him?

But they took you too hard this time, buddy. Too soon. They took you deeper than any of my pleading rubs, nudges, or words could rouse. I promise you we tried, Apollo. You knew – and inspired – the truest love. Sweet prince, my buddy, you marked me good.

— Dedicated to our sweet boy cat, Apollo, who passed so suddenly and unexpectedly at 3am this morning; a cruel theft of half the time we should have had to love and be loved by this beautiful little dude.

It’s been only 14 hours since we lost you, but I have never missed anything more in my entire life.

Sweet dreams, buddy. I am so thankful for every moment we had together.

– 23 November 2019, 5pm

My streets are damp and puddled from overnight rain, lined with trees and coffee shops glowing from the dark corners of morning, decorated with yellow and blue lightbulbs hung like a tiny county fair, green, wood frames holding the glass in place, a home amidst the high-rises, bigger on the inside than seems possible from out, coffee refills, egg sandwiches, and time. How does it do that? Hours emerge from minutes like stripping back a Russian doll.

Time slows down for Jo’s, and I, for one, could use some slow.

I hope that one day I’ll be wise, walk slowly through the trees, and listen to the breeze as it bustles leaves upon the path, clearing way for another truth that took a lifetime to muster.

It hits me, with simple, clear conviction, putting a stutter in my stride, but nothing more dramatic than that; a wry smile, and a small shake of the head. “Where have you been?” I say, aloud.

I must get home. I’m burning up! I am a man who holds a great secret; for that is what truth is before freed, before having the chance to pass it on. I’m desperate to, and I’m terrified of my death finding out before I’ve even had the chance to write it down.

Suddenly, I feel so mortal – eating spaghetti in an expensive shirt, red sauce and chinos; I’m fixated on the threatening stains, making them ever more likely, of course, like swerving into the headlights of oncoming traffic, like becoming weak-kneed or unstable as you peer over a sheer cliff.

I faced death many times on the way. I greeted them each, politely, with a tip of my hat, never slowing down or holding their gaze, for fear they’d engage me in conversation; that’s how they get you. I’m sure of it. “Haven’t you had enough yet?” they say, an outstretched hand beckons. “Come; it’s time.”

It’s easy to feel enamored with well-written roles, with well-lit scenes, with their talent and their beauty.

But I understood the difference – a love of fame is not the same – I could never look upon your face and ‘sometimes forget your name’.