Zamma and I have been camping on death’s door, the holy door. Up, down, sliding, recovering, it has been two weeks at the threshold, waiting in uncertainty. Zamma will decide.

We are two old friends.

Zamma is ancient approaching her twenty-third year. My wee girlie of the feral clans is not much bigger than two handfuls, yet she takes up a large space in my heart. I wonder at her presence, even the male bobcats drop on their bellies and shimmy backwards for Zamma. As Kadimiros the wise reminds, each of us is precious to the whole, our importance in holding down a corner of the universe is beyond knowing, even a cat.

Today there is a skip in Zamma’s step. So, we continue our daily habit of rising before dawn to watch Eos sweep away the stars and open the gate for the Sun, Zamma will drink out of the bird’s water. Star elixir, we tease, is what keeps her alive. And after a day of work we will sit again in the dark and watch Sirius and Regulus and all the others transit the deep ocean of night. One day we will both be sparks flying among them, perhaps.