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After the Height He Kept
After the Height He Kept Stephen L. Harrison
The mug is still on the windowsill, the water clouded with dust. No one drinks from it now, but I haven’t moved it.
The top of the door holds nothing. Once, it held you— balanced in that impossible way, waiting for the moment I’d pass beneath.
The house has learned a different quiet. Not silence— but something held back, as if it remembers what might leap.
Tipu still curls in the corner where the light falls late. Sometimes he turns his head, as though a shape has shifted just out of sight.
I keep finding you in small arrangements— the empty shelf, the untouched leaves of mint, the place beside my hand on the mouse mat where you chose to lie down and not rise again.
They gave you back to me smaller than I remember. Contained. As if the height in you could be folded.
But the slate says otherwise— your paw, pressed once in silver, still reaching outward.
I touch it more often than I admit. Not to remember. But to check that something of you is still moving.
The cup is still on the windowsill,
its water covered with dust. No one drinks from it now, but I haven't moved it. The top of the door
holds nothing now. Once, it held you— balanced impossibly, waiting for me to walk underneath. The house has learned
a different kind of quiet. Not silence— but something held back, as if it remembers what might jump.
Tipu still curls in the corner where the light comes late. Sometimes he turns his head, as if a shape has moved just out of view.
I keep finding you in small things— the empty shelf, the untouched mint leaves, the spot by my hand on the mouse pad where you lay down and didn't get up again.
They gave you back to me smaller than I remember. Contained. As if your height could be folded.
But the slate says otherwise— your paw, pressed once in silver, still reaching out.
I touch it more often than I admit. Not to remember. But to check that something of you is still moving.