After the Height He Kept

After the Height He Kept

By Stephen L. Harrison

The mug is still on the windowsill,

the water clouded with dust.

No one drinks from it now,

but I haven’t moved it.

The top of the door

holds nothing.

Once, it held you—

balanced in that impossible way,

waiting for the moment

I’d pass beneath.

The house has learned

a different quiet.

Not silence—

but something held back,

as if it remembers

what might leap.

Tipu still curls in the corner

where the light falls late.

Sometimes he turns his head,

as though a shape has shifted

just out of sight.

I keep finding you

in small arrangements—

the empty shelf,

the untouched leaves of mint,

the place beside my hand

on the mouse mat

where you chose to lie down

and not rise again.

They gave you back to me

smaller than I remember.

Contained.

As if the height in you

could be folded.

But the slate says otherwise—

your paw,

pressed once in silver,

still reaching outward.

I touch it

more often than I admit.

Not to remember.

But to check

that something of you

is still

moving.