To Glory, My Little Light.

I still feel your warmth by the window, where you used to nap in the sun.
The light falls there every morning, but your soft grey shadow is gone.

I don’t cry—your memory dances in the dust, where your golden fur once lay.
I just wish the sunshine knew how gentle you were when you slept.

You taught me how to be still, how to build quiet inside noisy days.
You curled up in a box and turned the world into silence and peace.
Now I try to hold that calm when storms come—I remember what you showed me.

You had your rules—one flick of your tail, one sharp stare, and I learned to listen.
Now my “no” is slower, kinder. A quiet boundary, like yours.

You didn’t need much—just a patch of light, a drifting feather.
And still, you glowed with joy.

Now your bowl is empty, but your grace fills my chest.
When fear comes, I remember how you faced shadows with stillness.
You taught me that love doesn’t need words. It’s in the way we stay.

I miss you, Glory. But your light lives on—in every breath, every quiet moment.