Schrödinger

My eighteen year old cat
collects conditions like baseball cards:
"kidney disease," near mint condition,
a rookie "stage three heart murmur,"
a first edition "irritable bowel disease."

The vet found a 6cm mass on his spleen,
and we've chosen not to remove it,
for fear it's the whole ball game if he goes under.
It's the bottom of the ninth anyway.

We get home, and darkness falls heavy.
In bed, his fur pools softly
within my outstretched arm.
I feel the tremors of purring, then silence.

I can't tell his breaths
from the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Is this it?
A pop-fly into forever?

What a gift to be chosen,
to hold him here,
as the ball unravels
toward mitt or home run.