Monday, February 9, 2015


Nor shall the air itself be counted anything even in wind you hear before it touches. Our sick cat sits on a maroon pillow; he can't hear the wind, though he feels us when we come home. Yesterday he tottered in from his sunny spot on skinny legs. We've started talking to him about the end, which is an end for him, but not for us. What does a cat know of mortality? Of the speeches we make before and after? Of the poems devoted to dying? “My brother should never have had a gun!” a woman yelled. More dead in one place than the sheriff had ever seen. Death is rarely non-violent; the cat knew that. Done slowly enough, it lingers like perfume in the carpet. We know us better as he dies. Take the brush and comb out his unkempt fur. Scratch his chin. He still likes it, so let him live.

--9 February 2015

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