Today at Poets United's Pantry of Prose Magaly asks us to tell a tale of magical realism. It can be fiction or non-fiction, but must be in prose, not poetry (313 words or fewer; mine is exactly 313). I always say I am no good at story-telling – but magical realism just might work, as in my world magic is real. (So much so that I am worried this true story might not seem magical enough!)
My Last Cat
The vet carried away her small body, wrapped in a towel. The door was scarcely closed before I sobbed.
Later that evening, forcing myself to sit at my desk and work, I heard her play with her cat toys up and down the passage – rustlings, bumpings, jingling bells. (She'd gradually stopped playing with them as she got sicker.)
The following days, though, she was here only in my mind, simultaneously present and absent. Remembering her everywhere, all over house and yard, emphasised her present absence ... her ever-present absence.
I'd got rid of every sign of her – toys and bowls, carry-cage and litter tray, leftover tinned food and medications. I gave them to the vet, and to Friends of the Pound. I didn't need reminders. Mainly, I was ensuring my resolve: no more pets.
Already sick of grieving. I did some energy work.
There came a hiatus. It was horrifying! Not only was she not here, it was as if she had never been. Life flowed smoothly, efficiently. I would go for hours not missing her, not thinking of her at all. Then, when I finally did, I was beset with guilt.
And how could it be? Sure, she was a quiet, obliging cat – yet she had strong presence. How could she be so wiped from consciousness? I prayed, I begged. 'Grief is better than this expunging!'
I think now it was part of the healing, an extreme of the Denial stage of grief.
Then, one night, working at my desk, I heard the tiny sound she'd sometimes make in her throat to get my attention – from the exact spot she'd sit to do that when alive.
Immediately I was in Acceptance. So fast! (I know grief.)
I'm still sad, sometimes weepy, but it feels different now.
'I was always here,' she tells me. 'You just weren't ready to hear me speak.'
Sob. Know that ever-present absence. I envy you your communications from her. I love "I was always here. You justbwerent ready to hear me speak. If she was your last cat, then how glorious it was her and no other.
ReplyDeleteIndeed!
Delete"Then, one night, working at my desk, I heard the tiny sound...." Aah, so assuring. She's with you.
ReplyDelete(Smile)
DeleteAhhhhh how beautifully this is written ...that it is the absence, the nonexistent nothingness born of expunging that is far more excruciating than grief...and now the comfort and yes magic realism of knowing that Selene has always been with you.
ReplyDeleteShe is still teaching her lessons, sharing her wisdom and comfort. Thank you, as always for sharing her presence.
I love how much you've always appreciated her.
DeleteAll my hair is standing on ends. I love that she gave you time... that she knew you well enough to understand that your heart needed time to process it all.
ReplyDeleteI really love the way you structured the story. We get to see her while she is still living, so we can be feel the hurt of not having missed her when you do, and we welcome the bliss of her return too.
I love these story-told glimpses. Thank you so much for sharing.
I'm so glad it worked as a story!
DeleteA dream of my Faye happily romping like she loved to do when she was a pup brought me to acceptance. This was perfect.
ReplyDeleteThis is beyond phenomenal poetry, Rosemary.
ReplyDelete"Already sick of grieving. I did some energy work."
That line, I find to be so wise and insightful.
So much to point out and gush over, but my thumb is tired. :)
That last line really got me Rosemary. Kleenex in hand and all. She knew what you needed.....time. This is a lovely and poignant piece of beautiful prose Rosemary!
ReplyDeleteOur Coco passed sometime ago, we still expect her wagging tail to greet us when we come home.
ReplyDeleteOh, how comforting to know she has shown you she's always with you. I had a cat named Trevor who was ill, and when the vet saw him she immediately told us he would have to be released to cross the rainbow bridge. I know he brought us our gray tabby Bindi Lu because both are so similar in temperament.
ReplyDeleteYes, cats are magical beings.
DeleteI feel the same way about the dogs I had over the years and how close we were.
ReplyDeleteThis was very moving and a beautiful write, Rosemary. It sounded like Selene found her own way of bringing you to that 'acceptance.'
ReplyDeleteYes it seems so!
DeleteThis touches my heart. I know the grief of losing a four legged friend. I like the lesson in this, grief is better than total denial. The process is painful but necessary. Great writing Rosemary.
ReplyDeleteA very emotional write, I loved the ending.
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