When his cat died in November he had no one to talk to.
He stands, cup in hand, looking out at a spot near the back fence. He had never been much of a gregarious person, but shooting the breeze with his little mate had kept him going somehow. Was it him, or his sense of belonging? He wasn’t sure. There were others, of course; other people that were there in his life, available for conversation. Those that would happily ask how he was doing, or did he need something, kind neighbours. Even the friendly postman that delivered twice a week would stop and talk about the weather and how well his moped was running. He knows people mean well, but none of them can replace the friendly chats that he had enjoyed with Arnold. Although it had never been anything other than a one way kind of thing, he felt that his loving friend had understood him, had known what he was thinking or how he felt. Most of the time they would just sit together, just sit, saying nothing.
He had gone quietly, in his sleep. That’s how he found him all those empty months ago, curled up in his basket, not moving. Wrapping him up and burying him in the garden had been such a hard thing to do. He recalled how he’d spent an age in the shed looking for the longest piece of bamboo to use as a marker.
It is easily seen from the kitchen window. In the mornings, sipping on his first cup of tea, he looks out at it and nods. He pays his respects to a friend that he misses. A companion that was always there for him… after she, his loving partner, had been taken from him a few years back.
He likes to watch as the stick slowly lights up with the morning sun… and he gives thanks.