9 PM: begin to look for them all

Under couches, behind curtains, on beds, behind your feet.

9:10 PM: feed the ones who whine, even though you know you shouldn’t.

9:15 PM: refill their water

9:17 PM: clean their litter boxes and get rid of the trash.

9:22 PM: play with the youngest, running across the first floor waving a ribbon

9:30 PM: cuddle with the middle, to ensure no jealousy or furniture destruction.

10:00 PM: go downstairs to find the oldest,

curled up in blankets, cocooned in warmth in rooms that are somehow always cold, even though he used to always sit atop the blankets, king of the world, making biscuits out of the felt, and was always the warmest thing in the room 

10:15 PM: walk upstairs, coaxing him up the way, until he stops and stares at you silently.

10:17 PM: remember when he would jump atop bookcases, squeeze into grates, run out the front door, and no one could stop him or contain him

10:18 PM: scoop him into your arms and

10:19 PM: carry him up the stairs.

10:22 PM: put him in the kitchen after making sure it’s empty,

10:23 PM: watch him drink out of the water, eat the food

10:26 PM: know that he is perfectly capable of going to the bathroom but

10:27 PM: put him inside with you anyway. Listen to his scrabbling in the litter as you brush your teeth

10:28 PM: and wash your face and hair as he sits and watches.

10:45 PM: carry him into your room and close the door,

10:46 PM: put clothes out for the next day, pretend they are not covered in cat fur, and ignore the fact he is sitting in your unfolded laundry

10:50 PM: take out the cardboard box and scraps of fabric that he prefers to sleep in

10:52 PM: try to go to bed.

11:20 PM: stay awake.

11:31 PM: leave your room, find toys, return to room,

11:33 PM: dangle them in front of the half-sleeping cat, who blinks sand and bemusement out of his eyes

11:40 PM: put your face against his back, breathing and purring, the warmth against your cheek, the sounds drowning out the buzzing  and constant going of your brain.

1:01 PM: when you finally fall asleep, he will not climb into bed with you. He waits until your breaths become as languid and even as his own.

1:25 PM: then he sits there, eyes on the door.  Maybe for your protection. Maybe for dawn. You will never know.

All you know is that he is there. And all he knows is that you are there.

And that is enough.

---

Cecilia Combs is a young poet from South Jersey. She had published her poems in Avant literary magazine, Flower mouth Press, and Ophiucus. She also self published a collection of poems called Tranquil Things! She loves to write about animals and draws a lot of inspiration from her cats and rabbits in particular.