My seven-year old grandson has been quiet, 
so I ask, what’s wrong? 
He says he doesn’t want to talk about it,
but I urge him to name what he is feeling, 
expecting sad or mad,  
but after a long pause he answers, longing. 
You know. My cat, meaning the one that died. 
For split seconds, he has seen him out of the corner of his eye. 
He is decades ahead of me in his knowing
Love finds a way to rub up against our ache.