For the love
that remains.

She wore that silly Christmas hat every December — red knit, green pom-pom, her grumpy Sphynx face. The glass painting caught every wrinkle, every strand of the scarf. It hangs where her favorite sunbeam used to hit the wall.

That nose — always in my face, always sniffing something. They sculpted him mid-stride on the little grass field, ears perked, tail up. The box sits on my desk. Some mornings I swear I hear his paws on the floor.

He was all tongue and enthusiasm. The artist built his fur layer by layer — you can feel it under your fingertips. That happy grin, those bright eyes. It's him, bursting right out of the frame.

She loved sitting on the newspapers, blocking my crossword. Now she sits in light — translucent, glowing, tail curled. The hologram catches her exact pose, that impatient green stare. I talk to her every evening.

Eighteen years. We hung her marker on the old tree where she chased foxtail grass every autumn. The engraving is beautiful — her photo, her dates, the words about the grass swaying all the way to the Milky Way.

They never got along in life — Hazel would swat, Sunday would ignore her. But in the painting they sit side by side, blue eyes and gold eyes, finally at peace. The artist mixed every shade of their fur on that palette.