My grandfather's name was Poppy. Actually it was Ferdinand, and Fred to his friends, but it was Grandpops to the kids. And I, the youngest of four grandkids, couldn't figure out how to say that when I was small, I guess. So to me, he was Poppy.
I went to a memorial poetry reading on Wednesday night, to celebrate the life of a local poet who recently passed away.
My lap is cold.
There is way too much room on the bed.
My socks are exactly where I left them this morning.
No one met me at the kitchen door tonight when I came home.
And no one woke me up at four a.m. with a paw on my face.
And I miss you.
There are few things in this world that helped me to feel better at the end of long day than pulling you into my arms, buried my nose in your fur, and listening to you purr.
I will miss our friendship.
I've had to do this a couple of times, and I hate it.
And I'm pondering through the tears that I'm crying over my cat's body why it is that I've had blood relatives, with whom I've shared genes and Thanksgivings, whose deaths have affected me less than this little mammal that I'm handing over to the vet now, and is that right or is that wrong?
Or is it just what it is?
And all I can do is hope through the tears that my kid won't ask how kitty died because I've already resolved not to lie to him but I don't want to tell him mommy paid the vet to do it.
Here’s to Obi Wan, a good cat who wandered into our lives about the same time Episode I graced the theaters, thus the name. He was itsy bitsy and showed no fear. And then he grew and grew. We called him Ben for short. I always figured we’d get around to calling him Old Ben. Turns out we ran out of time.
My cat died tonight. I think I need to say that out-loud a couple of times just so it sinks in.
I was running a basket of laundry back to the bedroom while Luke was not eating his dinner in the highchair. I passed Ben sprawled out on the living room floor. “Hi, Kitty.” I stopped two steps later. Ben hadn’t responded. His eyes were open but he didn’t look at me when I passed. The part of me that gets that he’s gone, got it right then.
Sorry I've been missing in action for the past few weeks. The latest edition of The Crow is due on bookstore shelves on the 15th, so after ringing in the New Year with a few friends, I got back to work, trying to meet my deadline. It's at the printers now and thus out of my hands. With luck, I might get my copies on Friday. (A quick glance at my calendar just informed me that this Friday is Friday the 13th.
It was an odd weekend of ups and downs, to be sure.
Technology is moving along so fast it's tiptoeing into the realm of divination.
Once, when you took a photograph, you had to wait a week to see it. By the time most of us took the film in, we couldn't remember what was on the roll. Rediscovery. The receiving of the developed pictures took us back to show us our past. Oh look dear, remember when we went to the zoo? This picture came out well. Oops, should of used the flash there. Oh well.