By Ellie Jacobi

Opening my eyes before sun-up, lights from an airplane are intruding on the dark peace of my bedroom. With no blinds or curtains on the windows facing the lakeside, it appears very bright, and I can see a second light by reflection on the water. The reflection is broken up by the slow-moving waves until it seems the whole outside space is filled with moving lights. 

Emmy, with her dark fur and white markings, seems almost a reflection of the reflection. She raises her head as her sleep is disturbed and she looks at the lights. She gives a great yawn, smelling a bit like catnip, her drug of choice, and then snuggles back next to my side, under the soft green coverlet, quietly purring. 

As the lights move overhead, the last glimpse of it highlights a picture of Paul on the nightstand. How I miss him. As does Emmy. After he died she went through the whole house looking for him under tables and cabinets, behind desks, in closets, as well as every corner of this room and under the bed. We have bonded strongly in our shared longing for him.

The noise of the airplane has found its way into the room along with the light, getting louder as it goes overhead and then as with the lights, slowly fading as it heads for the airport out of sight. Emmy and I settle back into very welcome sleep, remembering how Paul loved to fly.

© 2017 Ellie Jacobi

Ellie is a native Madisonian, but a world citizen member of the Baha’i Faith.