Mr Headphones, who is banned from the clinic without an appointment, specifically for being threatening to my friend, Mr Hairdresser On Fire, and generally for showing up drunk and rude too many times, shows up in the clinic without an appointment, and I call his Case Manager, and soon afterwards Security escorts him to the elevators.

Mr Grump shows up, leaving his traditional trail of sugar packets, and all the female employees compliment him on his sharp new haircut. He removes his baseball cap with one hand, rubs his head with his other, and grins.

Mr TMI approaches the front desk, and my new co-worker asks him how he is, and I try to send mental signals to turn back time and warn her not to ask that, because I know he will spend the next few minutes telling us.

This is the time that the small differences set in. As Phillip and I were sitting on the futon, right after I got home yesterday, talking about Gladden, I looked over at our dual lamp. It occurred to me that we will no longer have to turn the red light on at night. (The bedroom was lightless last night.) In the next moment, it occurred to me that we will no long have to leave the white light on during the day.

I was online yesterday evening, reading blogs and online newsletters. I kept and eye on the taskbar clock, as I usually do as the time approaches eight. Each time I'd look at the clock, I'd be reminded that I no longer have to log off to feed Gladden.

I had a dream this morning. I was moving into a new apartment that someone had assigned to me. I parked in front of the apartment building in the middle of the night and discovered that it was in the bad part of town. The building on the street were shabby or boarded up. There was a car up on blocks with its hood up. There were a couple of suspicious characters hanging around nearby. I was a little afraid to be there. I let myself into the apartment building as quickly as I could, but I was also afraid that someone would be hiding in the lobby, behind the front door. The lobby was empty. I scanned the apartment directory to see which apartment was mine. For a moment, I was shocked to discover that I had been assigned an apartment with several other people. Then I realized that the names of the previous tenants had just been lined through, or partially erased, and my name added to the bottom of the list. I'd be in apartment 24. I looked up into the tall lobby. The building was perfectly square. The walls were bare concrete, with a metal staircase spiraling up the edges. Hanging in the center of the space was a large sculpture in the shape of an umbrella. There was metal sculptural nets draped around the staircase. The building was utilitarian and stark, yet stylish and chic and upscale. Sunlight flooded the whole lobby from huge windows up high. Next, I was somewhere up high in the building, with a 360 degree view of the surrounding neighborhood, which didn't look so bad in the daylight. It wasn't the richest neighborhood in town, but certainly not as rundown as it looked at night. There were large expanses of grass, and houses and apartments. In between two buildings, a man and a woman were having a loud argument. The space they were standing in looked familiar, and I remembered that Phillip and I once hunted a geochache there. End of dream.

As I write about that dream, the apartment building reads a little like a jail or prison, but it didn't feel that way in the dream. And where was Phillip in the story?

At 10:15 this morning, I figured it was happening, and I asked my co-workers if they minded if I took a short break. Of course, they didn't mind. They understood. I walked out to the back of the hospital. There was no one else out there - it was too cold and damp. I stood and watched the city skyline and felt the invigorating tingle of the cold and damp air against my skin and thought about how beautiful life really is. At that moment, I wanted to be there with Phillip and Gladden. (My boss had offered me the day off, when I told her this morning.) But I felt it was important that Phillip and Gladden have that time together. They had each other before I arrived. It felt right that they should share the end.

Phillip stopped by the clinic, and we went to lunch together in the hospital cafeteria. Phillip didn't want to eat anything except french fries. I was comforted by the image Phillip recalled for me, of Gladden curled up in his hands, and gently going to sleep forever.

We went shopping for a burial box yesterday. Our first choice, Africa Mama, was closed for the holiday. Our second choice, the other African store on Broadway that we don't know the name of, didn't have any suitable boxes. Panache didn't have any, either. We went to the Cost Plus World Market store close to Pike Place Market and found a very nice little box. I drew a picture of Gladys, Squeak, Phillip, and me for the inside of the lid - similar to the ones I did for Gladys and Squeak.

This afternoon, Phillip put Gladden T Hart in his box, along with gifts for the afterlife: artichoke leaves, other flowers, a lock of Phillip's hair, and the bell. (Gladden used to attack that bell, and try to pull it off the string we'd hang it by in the inside of the cage. We could never figure out if he hated the bell, or just liked the challenge trying to pull it down. Either way, he got lots of enjoyment out of it.) As a joke, Phillip wrapped Gladden inside the pocket of an old shirt. (Sugar gliders, they say, are pocket pets. We could never get any of ours to sit in our pockets, especially not Gladden. Now he's going to Heaven in a pocket.) We both laughed, in between the crying, and the image of Gladden coming back to haunt us to get even.

Gladden T Hart was a unique being. He is missed already.

Right now, Gladden T Hart is asleep in his house. It is his last night on earth. A couple of hours ago, I fed him his last breakfast: Juice from a can of artichoke hearts, water with lingonberry drink mixed in, chicken broth, creamed corn, extra runny mashed potatoes, and blueberry yogurt. (He is so thin.) Tonight, like last night, Phillip and I are at Gladden's beck and call. When he wants playtime, we give him playtime. When he wants solitude, that's what he gets. If he wants to explore every corner of the bedroom, we let him run. If he wants to hide behind the mirror, we don't chase him out. If he wants to hang out on my back and be invisible, we let him hang out while I read the last few pages of Weaveworld.

Sometimes I am crushed into a little ball by the grief. At other times, I am lightened by the wonderment of life.