Tonight, I found myself sobbing over the age of my cat.
In calendar years, he’s about 12 or 13,
In human years, maybe almost 60, I think.

Maybe he’ll live another 7 if we take good care of him.
I’ll be 64 and he’ll be gone, just like his sister, Peaches,
whom we lost just a few years ago in 2019.

We’d lost two brother cats in 2011 and 2012
after raising them for 20 years,
from little kittens.

One day, Blue will be gone forever too, I cried in my head,
keeping my little convulsions silent
so I didn’t wake up my wife.

I walked out gingerly in my bare feet
to our enclosed balcony
where I knew Blue would be while we slept.

He was sitting on our table staring out our big window,
just looking at the moon and night sky.
He loves sunlight and moonlight equally.

He was still high off a little catnip that
we’d given him earlier, and he greeted me
with an enthusiastic head-butt.

I talked and he purred, and I stroked him
and he head-butted, and showed his joy
in all the curls and waves that his tail could tell.

His joy in the moment of moonlight sharing
made me forget my future fear and worry,
and just enjoy a beautiful now.

I was glad to meet him where he was
share his moon moment with him,
and have all the moments
that we can have
for now.