The sunbeam still falls where you slept

 The sunbeam still falls where you slept.

I noticed it this morning while walking through the room. That same warm patch of light stretched across the floor, landing in the exact place where you used to curl up and rest.

For one breath, I expected to see you there.

I expected your sleepy eyes to open when you heard me. I expected the soft thump of your tail against the floor, just enough to let me know you knew I was nearby.

But the sunlight was holding an empty space.

You loved that spot.

No matter where you had been sleeping before, you somehow always found the sun when it moved through the house. You would settle into it so peacefully, your body warm beneath my hand, your face completely safe and content.

Sometimes I would step over you on my way through the room.

Sometimes I would sit beside you for a minute and rub your soft ears.

Sometimes I barely noticed at all because I thought there would be thousands more mornings just like that.

Now I notice everything.

I notice how quiet the room is when the light arrives. I notice the clean floor where your fur used to collect. I notice that I still walk around your favorite spot instead of through it, as though some part of me believes you are only sleeping.

The house has so many places in it, but that little patch of floor belonged to you.

It was where you rested after breakfast. Where you waited while I moved around the house. Where I could always find you when the morning felt slow and peaceful.

It looked like nothing special to anyone else.

To me, it was one of the places where our life happened.

Today, I lowered myself onto the floor and placed my hand inside the sunbeam. It was warm, just like your fur used to feel after you had been lying there for a while.

And that broke me.

I wanted to reach farther and find you beneath my fingers. I wanted to feel your breathing, kiss the top of your head, and tell you that you could stay there as long as you wanted.

Instead, I sat in your light and missed you.

Maybe that is what this spot has become now.

A quiet place where the sun remembers what the room has lost.

I like to imagine that somewhere beyond my sight, you still have a warm place to sleep. A place where nothing hurts, where the light never moves away, and where you know I still think of you every morning.

The sunbeam may fall on an empty floor now, my baby…

but it still feels warm with the love you left there.