Rainbow Bridge

He’s waiting there, perhaps chasing butterflies, little creatures with wings that he has never seen, for he never felt sunlight without a window in between, never felt the wind without a screen, not in his lifetime anyway. But in the meadow there is sunlight, and yes, a cat can frolic too, even an orange-white Japanese bobtail who in life never ran for more than several seconds at a time whenever dinner was called. Above the golden hills near the rainbow bridge are clouds of memories, merging into one another just as love merges with laughter, joy with tears. He watches those clouds, watches the memories glow and dim as he waits, wiggling his little bobtail, twitching his whiskers under an eternal autumn sky. There he sees his kitten self, standing on trembling legs as he emerges from a paper bag to the delight of eyes that would grow to love him. There he sees himself , a kitten no longer, sprawled lazily across a book under lamplight, urging the hands that have now stroked him for years to put away the books, urging the boy to whom those hands belong to go to bed, so that the blankets might be warm for both of them. He watches the clouds drift before curling into a ball in the late afternoon light, purring softly while waiting, waiting for that boy to arrive.