She used to purr when she leaped onto the bed;
I prefer to think of her arrivals.
I could read her expressions through the fur:
glad to see me (and usually was):
relaxed eyelids, fur sleek off the face;
impatient with my stupidity:
staring at me, legs rigidly apart, lips wide;
angry that I forgot she was outside:
plenty of carping criticism at me as she walks by;
Time for sleep:
lots of purring, rolled over against me.
She says none of that now,
takes her well-earned rest
in that little grave near the cottage
on the island where she found us:
lost, so many years ago.