Easily distracted

“I don’t write anymore,” I said.

He looked at me and nodded slightly, as if he understood, which was impossible because he really didn’t know me.

“I used to write all the time. About everything. But then it was like I’d already said everything that needed to be said, and I started writing less and less. And then one day I wasn’t writing at all.”

“Maybe you should write about things that don’t need to be said.” His eyes sought mine and then looked away, as if something far off in the distance had suddenly caught his attention.

“You mean like sunsets and ocean breezes and the purr of a kitten when you hold it just right?”

“A closet can hold only so much baggage. Skeletons need room to dance.”

I smiled, slightly. Amused that he though my skeletons could dance. And in the distance something moved. Just enough to make me turn my head. And there we were, two strangers balancing on the uncertainty of the moment. Too easily distracted by the little things, flickering on the horizon.

Gremlin

She died alone and I feel a little bit bad about that. I should have stayed with her. I should have sat next to her bed and petted her head until she took her last breath. But I have a hard time with death and dying. Wanting everything to stay the same and those I love to always be there. I made sure she was comfortable and that the sunlight would be on her for a little while. And then I closed the door and walked away. I think she died shortly thereafter. In her sleep. In her soft bed. With the sun to keep her warm. The sun stronger than I could be.

She was 16 years and four months old. She was a good cat, companion, friend. I remember bringing her home. I tiny frightened kitten. Abandoned, along with her mother and a number of siblings. All pure white except for a small dark smudge on the top of their heads. A mark that disappeared as she grew older. A fun and happy cat who liked to climb trees, chase mice, and lay in the sun. A friendly cat who liked people and other animals, especially a puppy named Tonka who I had brought home few weeks before her. They grew up together, slept together, played together. And when Tonka crossed the Rainbow Bridge in February of this year, she searched and howled and became quite distraught that her friend was gone. She never stopped looking for him.

I buried her in the woods near a tree she liked to climb. I dug the hole much deeper and bigger than it needed to be, but I only wanted to lower her into the ground once. Not pull her out and dig some more and then try again, as if I was planting a tree. I lined the hole with pine needles and woodsy things, and then gently filled it back in. A beautiful, peaceful day. Cloudy, but warm for November. The quiet sounds of the woods, birds singing. Small things scampering through the fallen leaves. Mother Nature paid her respects in the form of rain. A gentle, spring-like rain that said “Here I am to say goodbye to your beloved friend.” And the rain felt good, as I was warm from digging, and stayed until I found a fitting rock for a headstone. And then it was gone.

I don’t know if there is an afterlife for animals. There should be. Especially for the ones who are loved. Just as much, if not more, than people. And if there is, then I take some comfort in the fact that she has been reunited with Tonka. That they are playing now. Racing about in a meadow somewhere. Or perhaps sleeping in the sun. Curled up against her friend. At home in between his big paws.

Gremlin, my little girl, I miss you.

If there ever was

Sometimes I think I should just write about anything. That something might be better than all this nothing. Like how right now I feel empty. A heavy hammer with no nails to hit. My feelings in bulk stored away on an empty shelf. So certain I’d never run out.

For so long the words wrote themselves, but I guess they grew tired and walked away. The ink fades and I’m left with little more than slips of yellowed paper. Driven by a cold wind to places I would otherwise never go. I think it should be obvious, how I feel, but I forget there are no more observers. Life just a twisting trail that leads between then and now.

There’s no destination anymore. I keep walking, but I travel just as far standing still.

Strange

Nothing since April.

That's the longest I've ever gone without writing something.

Drying words

Until the ink dries, there’s still time to make changes. Like watching a heartbeat skip across a monitor. Waves of life creating and then destroying the shoreline.

There are many things that shine, like stars, and eyes, and the twitching glimmer of dying memories. I don’t remember what it feels like to be missed. Constantly remaking myself to fit the places where I don’t belong. Spaces too small for the baggage I tow behind me. Distance once a literal thing, now something I keep in a jar just to pass the time.

The vanity of damp words on paper. Believing they will live on long after I am gone. To be worn about someone’s wrist like the rings of Saturn or a goodnight kiss. Craving freedom all the more now that the ink has set.

Afternoon

Sometimes it feels like the core of a golf ball. So incredibly tight and loaded with energy. Just waiting for that perfect swing to send it soaring. The open sky still waiting for gods too old to exist.

Living a life I never asked for. An unrequited journey with occasional windows. Smudgy glimpses of the one I should have had. Puppet strings creating the illusions of choice. I move forward, but the footprints behind me are not mine.

And what is life except a scale to weigh our burdens? A ransom note for mistakes we wish we could take back. Words too stubborn to be spoken or coaxed by poets. I watch the darkness limp away and feel its pain.

Outside, the wind answers questions before they are asked. Anyone can pretend to listen, but few ever know what has been said.

The illusion of movement

Every day I feel myself slipping away
just that much farther.

My wishes holding tight to pigeon legs
pretending they are eagles
confusing darkness with the shadows
of years yet to happen.

Stabbing my dreams with dull daggers
believing tears will make them real.