A carrier becomes the borrowed day,
lined with blankets.

They arrive, fitting in my hands –
covered in fur, small whiskers, and little peeps.
They learn their language quickly:
cry when they are hungry.

I become their safe haven:
warmth when they are cold,
mama when they need to be cleaned,
provider when they need food.

Careful with their delicate bones,
listening for their movements.
Teaching them the ways:
climbing, litterbox, and exploring.

Time is measured in feedings and accolades:
the first climb, the first meow, the first scare,
the weight gained, the next series in shots,
the changing color of the eyes.

They flourish quickly;
too quickly for my heart.

They learn your routine:
the sound of your car,
the sound of your voice,
the popping of a wet food lid.

They climb your legs.
They sniff your face.
They bite and pounce on your hand.

They learn what safety and love are.

And then-
Like all borrowed things,
it’s time to go.

You hand over the little pieces:
of your heart
of your life.

In the same carrier you saved them:
pretending your heart doesn’t ache for them.

The room is quiet.
The box is empty.
The towels are clean.
The toys are unmoved.

You were never meant to be forever.

You were a bridge,
not the final destination.
You were the vacation,
not the home.

You showed them what it feels like
to feel safe,
to feel loved,
to be cared for.

Tonight, one of them will
curl into a lap
run their sandpaper tongue
across a hand, petting them
purr into the ear of a loved one.

And live the life they deserve.

Your heart aches and beats
both with sadness of missing them
and happiness for their future.

Full of love
even when temporary
and never wasted.