Dear Wigleaf,

I woke up today, and my cat was dead. It feels too on the nose for the piece I sent you—a partner who was having an affair, who broke the neck of a kitten dying on the side of the road. Instead it was my husband and I crying in each other's arms for our sweet grump, Phife, his body limp in a box by our feet.

I don't know how to hold this sadness. It's coming out in short bursts, my dog coming to my side when I erupt crying, burrowing his body into mine as if the pressure could relieve some of the pain. My son, Beck, left for college last month, and the house was already too quiet from his absence.

When I fall asleep tonight, I'm certain one image will keep resurfacing from the first day Phife came home. He wouldn't come out from his hiding spot under the couch until Beck sat with him, silent and patient. When he finally emerged, the space, this family, felt more full.

Sit silent and patient with someone today. And be well.

Love and light,

Bailey