i used to say—that's my wick—that's my boy.

it was a good day, but wickett died today, so it was a sad day too. i found this picture on an external memory kept from my old computer, but there must have been hundreds more, and i don't know how to find them or where to look. it's ok i guess. whether or not you have pictures or not if you're sentimental you're going to feel nostalgia for the times gone before. i have pictures in my head of wickett walking on the wooden fence in the alley, weaving through the bushes silently studying the birds while i follow along holding the leash and talking to him softly, tugging softly to keep him from jumping over into the neighbor's yard.
we don't have the cat now, we have the memories of the cat. i feel some pangs when i think about drifting away into the dog realm. i see pictures of him then sitting in the leafy window dappled in light and shadow, watching the birds fly through glass, sometimes forgetting and bumping his head in his excitement. i'll look up at the window that looks out on the courtyard and remember how he called when he saw me coming, and then ran to meet me by the stairs. i'll look at the window and feel him watching.
it's coming back now, i had drifted, though i was never far away.  
the memory is the life now, and it's funny, how alive he feels, how we're there together again remembering. 
he was a good friend, and a good friend gone still is.