Luna by Ken Whitson, a piping hot café au lait

Whiskers tickle me awake as Luna sniffs my morning breath—every morning and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But then I realize, again, that she’s not there, hasn’t been for over a year now. The weight on my chest is not her warm furry body, but the heaviness of grief. Nineteen years is a long life for a cat, but not nearly long enough for me. My lap misses her when I read, my desk misses her when I write, and my heart misses her with every beat. The tickle comes again, and I finally open sticky eyes, my reflection in the bedroom mirror breaking the spell. For a moment, I stare uncomprehending at my face, Luna’s memory still strong. Oh, I think, as focus returns. I really should shave that off. Damn thing looks like something Luna would have left for me, anyway.

About the author 

 Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn't yet figured out what retirement means. When he's not consulting or otherwise unretiring, he enjoys crafting vivid, emotionally charged stories with unconventional themes. His work appeared previously in CafeLit Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, and in Dragon Soul Press's The Fear Doctor Anthology. 

 

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