Like lay in the shadows. They told me to get up.  

Find the light, Angie. It's not too late. 

Like count cardinals in the trees. I tried. Red, rude, rhymy. They mocked me.   

One, two, three. Cheerful song is wasted on thee.

Shouldn't be this hard at the end of the world.   

I went inside to warm by the stove. But didn't it go cold, pot-belly chuckling.  

You don't really want to end it.  

Bet ya won't even touch me. 

To hear the tarnished old kettle—Grandma's—whistle once more. It wouldn't. Told me to speak up.

What's wrong, girl? 

Grandma had loved me.   

Suddenly, the ginger cat did too. Rub, purr, purr. Then silly questions, dumb questions.    

Meow, the world is ending?

As in no more tuna? 

Or as in you are ending?

Before you buy tuna?

Before you talk to your mother?

She might have tuna. Meow.

My mumbling went to her voicemail. After "Sorry for being a terrible daughter," the machine cut me off.   

Get over here. She's home.  

But outside it was raining black and blue. Inside, too.

Last glimpse of the grave of the dog I met as his world ended. Didn't want to talk about it, but his marker did.  

You should've cried. 

It might've helped. Might now. 

Began. To the gravestone and the cat, to kettle and stove, the birds and to the shadows, I wept, "Let me alone. Let it end at night. Tonight while I'm sleepy and all is colourless."  

But the things wouldn't. The world didn't. 

They talked all night. 

Neither heaven nor hell came.