April 1, 2025

cherry

On the Sunday morning when the cat was on her third
day of not breathing right, I convinced myself of any
number of alternative scenarios involving a temporary
stay from the narrative unfolding in the corner
of the off-white easy chair she didn’t seem to want to leave.
The wet hours of the second-to-last-day of March lengthened.
We took turns speaking in the ways no one teaches, lowering
to our knees and making vague but purposeful shapes
with our fingertips. There was certain spot that got her sleeping
again; another made her turn slightly, exposing her belly to get
the most of it.
I don’t want to say what happened later,
when the vet arrived with her syringes, despite the kindness
of the dream syrup inside them, because too soon after
all movement stopped and someone had to write a check
and we had to get on with our emptier lives.

It's not raining anymore, but the house is cold. Outside,
between here and the barn, a grave. We’ll plant
a cherry tree there soon, hope it flowers.