I get up to check on her again. She rarely sleeps anymore. Shallow breath and tired eyes that stare at me.
I carry couch pillows out and arrange them on the patio floor. Then I pick her up, her diminishing weight a constant shock to my arms.
“What’s happened?” my husband demands, alarmed, when I wake him.
“Come,” I say. “We’re making one more memory.”
So we huddle under a large comforter. The three of us: his hand on my shoulder, my fingers curled around her paw. Around us the moment stretches, endless as the ink-blue sky before the coming day.