To My Mochi,
Sunflowers bloom on the windowsill,
but your nose won't dust them with pollen anymore.
Seven years ago, you fit in my palm—
a fluffy mochi ball stealing your name from my dessert.
You stubbornly guarded our secrets: socks hidden on rainy days, pressing against my ankles during storms, snoring on my keyboard as I cried over my thesis.
You saw through my heartbreaks.
That night I sobbed, "Never trust love again," you dragged over that chew toy he gave you, eyes gleaming:"At least he picked good toys?"
At 6 a.m., no furry alarm clocks jump on my bed.
But I still find your dandelion-fluff fur in my slippers
Your chicken treats wait in the freezer, half-hidden pills still line the table crack, even that dreaded cone... makes my chest ache now.
Passing the pet shop, my reflection tricked me I almost saw you bounding toward me.
Laugh if you want,
but your clumsy human finally walks home alone.
Save me a spot near Rainbow Bridge.
When a white-haired grandma brings strawberry mochi in seventy years, pounce and mess up her wrinkles like you used to.
Your chicken treats are always waiting.
—Your warm pillow,
Mom
