It was time for the Girl to go to bed; it was time for Elsa to play. These two events cannot happen simultaneously: several nights, L has come downstairs, kitten in hand, tearfully explaining that “Elsa is jumping on me and biting on me and won’t let me sleep!” Taking all that into consideration, I explained to L that she would have to go to bed without Elsa, which brought on panicked hysteria. “I can’t sleep without Elsa!” I calmed her down, explaining that I would bring the kitten up to her room once she had tired herself out.

For an hour, the cat played with a green bean that had fallen when K was cooking for tomorrow night.

As promised, I took the cat back up to L’s room, nestling her into the crook of L’s neck. And as I walked out, I, the pessimist, the cynic that I am, had the most macabre thought: If they’re this close now, if L is this attached so quickly, what will it be like when Elsa dies? I pictured a teenager, perhaps nearing the end of her high school adventures. Maybe it would happen around prom time, devastating the Girl and running her prom. Silly thoughts, but I mentioned them to K.

“Well, if Elsa dies a natural death, L will be an adult then.”

I’d forgotten L is already seven years old. I’d forgotten how long cats can live. Or more precisely, I’d forgotten that things won’t always be as they are now. That’s why the passage of time catches us so unexpectedly. The changes creep by, day by day, and we think it’s always been as it is. E has always been just on the verge of talking. The Girl has always been able to read, stumbling over only the most troubling words. Except all those always’s can’t always be, not even for a moment. But oh how we sometimes want them to…