The only lights in Wilbert's entire neighborhood were the sparking power lines and blue lightning, scratching its way across the night sky.

Wilbert kept flashlights tucked here and there, in case of power outages. That was Wilbert, a human Eeyore, pessimistic about life, but viscerally prepared for disaster. I felt my way along the sofa, startled by the sound of a cat jumping.

"Here, kitty, kitty," I said aloud, comforted by the sound of my own voice. 

The cat hissed. In the cushions, I found what I hoped was shriveled popcorn. Wilbert hadn't owned a cat for ages--not since a UPS truck accidentally backed over Eight-Ball in the driveway. 

I had never seen another cat in four years of spending Friday nights at Wilbert's, drinking German wine, devouring boxes of Wheat Thins, topped with pale squares of that Caraway cheese Wilbert liked so much, and reading poems by Sylvia Plath. When the crackers were gone, we'd make love on the Persian rug that belonged to Wilbert's grandmother. Sunlight filtered through the empty blue bottles in the windowsills, painting the chalky white walls a liquid blue.

The cat growled again. I found a flashlight, tucked beneath the gray sweater I knitted for Wilbert last Christmas. I buried my face in the shapeless sweater that had turned out like a kindergartner's potholder.    

The flashlight showered the room with white light; dust particles frozen in midair. Everything looked the same--a short stack of poetry books, Wilbert's Van Gogh 'Starry Night' coffee mug, juxtaposed by a silver teaspoon on the small table next to his armchair, and a cemetery of forgotten cigarette butts in the waterfall-shaped ash tray I had brought him from Niagara Falls.

I smelled the Salem Menthols before I saw the familiar shape of Wilbert's smoke, curling lazily from behind the wings of the armchair. Apple pie gladness replaced my frenzy, and I realized Wilbert was there, probably enjoying my stumbling and cat-calling in the dark.

I shined the flashlight on Wilbert's chair, but saw no one. Perched on the back was a black cat, a round white spot on the top of its head. It looked, remarkably, just like Eight-Ball. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, hastily bent in the middle, the tip still a faint orange glow. The cat jumped as I dropped the flashlight and I ran out into the stormy night.

That afternoon, wearing the only black dress I owned, I stood under a ridiculously bright blue tent, more fitting for a circus than a graveside funeral. As I said my goodbyes to Wilbert, a gust of wind blew hard, filling my black shoes with water.   

Wilbert would have loved that.