Dusk

          When Miss Kitty returned with a very small and a very large glass of water, she wondered at the silence that filled the cabin like a black out curtain. She longed for the good old days of summer, when the three of them would sit together, play music, laugh, and sing.

            “Harold, are you all right?”

            Harold, rubbing his chin, said, “I think I need to shave.”

            He turned, and slowly trudged back up the stairs to his room in the attic.

            Miles, sipping the ice-cold water, looked up in time to see Miss Kitty brushing tears from her freckled cheeks. He wished he could comfort her, and hold her in his arms while she cried. But he wasn’t very big, and really, he wasn’t very good with emotions that far outsized his packrat dimensions. He finished his water, and in spite of his fear of unwieldy human emotions, he walked over to Miss Kitty, and held out his packrat hands.

            She looked down, and seeing Miles, packrat hands extended to the heavens, she bent over and scooped him up. He ran up her arm and nestled on her shoulder, whispering, “There, there, everything is going to be just fine,” into her ear, just like his Irish Mum had done for him when he was a wee packrat crying because the English packrats were making fun of him.

            Miss Kitty, exhausted from digging up the grave, dehydrated from the effects of the autumn/summer sun, and overcome with emotion, went over and sat in Harold’s rocking chair.

            Miles and Miss Kitty looked out the front door as dusk triumphed over the day, and in turn, faded into night. The stars winked and wobbled, acting like they didn’t have a care in the world.