Endings

There is such weight in endings.

One year dissolves into another. Did I do enough in the year now gone? What will I expect of myself in the year ahead?

Mostly, though, you never know a thing is the last thing in real time, only later.

What if this is his last supper? What if this is his last pair of slippers, the last stroke along the soft back of his beloved tabby, the last reach of his hand for mine, palms together, warm, that little squeeze confirming we’re still here together?

What is the last thing he will see at the window? And can I make it be birds, wings in a blue sky, lifting up?