I slump in the chair after another sleepless night, smoothing the wrinkled funeral brochure in my knotted hands. My faith shaken, I ask, “Why?” Whiskers, hopeful, sits in the bay window. His eyes following a bird’s wings as it rises toward a lemonade sunrise. Does my cat believe in God?
Ann S. Epstein, whose height in inches is roughly commensurate with this story’s length in words, writes fiction and and memoir.
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