Some days I see Stella in the window, standing on top of the couch, rubbing her body against the glass, tail up yet relaxed. Other days, I see her on the bed, curled up and napping, her chest lightly rising, lightly falling.  These images are the conjurings of grief.  Memories of her peek up here and there, flickering in like an old projection, clipped yet running. It’s been four weeks—a whole month exactly—since she passed. The grief remains, sticking to me like a wet leaf.

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