Passing Words: Chris Arsenault

Person Heaven was working at the speed of a drugged sloth (as per usual) and they were all peevish. “If only Cat Heaven ran the gate,” one said, stepping up to take its turn to knead the cushion by the window. “We wouldn’t let anyone in,” another snickered, joining in the kneading and working (silently) on a big hairball for the 2am gluck gluck splick competition. “That’s not true,” interrupted one of the tinies. “We’d let one person in, just like now.” They all stopped to admire their handiwork; the cushion had been fluffed up impeccably; it was suitably posh and cozy in a position of honor (where the sunlight would never fade or stray from the one meant to sleep there). “Yes, you’re right,” the first replied eventually and gently, laying down to warm the cushion and pulling the tiny to its side. “But he gave everything, didn’t he? And that’s so rare. It’s so painfully rare.” Calm, cool, and collected now, nonchalant and angel-may-care, they rested knowing that the human soul would arrive at any minute and love would overtake them. It would be a tails up purr fest of embarrassing proportions; there would be yowling and little bites and … “No video, right?” another one in the crowd asked (suddenly self-conscious about crying and bouncing off of the golden columns in a kind of awkward anxiety bliss parkour). “ABSOLUTELY NOT,” the first comforted, its pupils dilating from excitement at the sound of a footstep in the hall.