Yesterday Afternoon

I sat down in my armchair, ‘just for a minute,’

then I was dreaming. There was my Poppi! I didn’t 

know it was a dream. In the dream I didn’t know 

she’d been dead. ‘Poppi, you’re back!’ I said, 

with a joyful shout, and ran after her down the passage 

as she scampered in a way she hadn’t these last few years, 

but once did. I wanted to see her sweet face. 

She never turned it to me, but I knew it was her. 

Two other cats – Freya in 2010, Selene 2015 – 

disappeared right after moving in here, to go and explore

for two whole days. Each time, I thought I’d never 

see them again – until they turned up, curiosity satisfied, 

no more wanders. In my dream, I thought it was just

like that. ‘Oh, Poppi,’ I said. ‘Here you are!’

I was laughing, excited. ‘Come here,’ I called,  

‘and give me a cuddle.’ But she ran happily, full 

of life and strength, and I ran too without stumbling –

which I can’t any more. Maybe that fact interrupted,

told me I was dreaming. With a sudden wrench

I woke up – alone in my chair, in a silent house.

The Spring day was already turning dark.

‘I dreamed that Poppi came back,’ I told a friend.

‘Perhaps she did,’ she said. Perhaps … it was

vivid enough. Others, other loved ones who 

have gone on, have visited in dreams. Was this 

a hello from Poppi-turned-angel? But in the dream

I was running too. Was it a different angel-message

to tell me, ‘Fear not. You will soon be rejoined.’ ? 

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #249: Message from an Angel.

Losing Poppi

I want to lift you up to my heart, my girl, as I did when you were alive; to hold you, and stroke your soft, silky head, and hear you purr. After a little while, you’d want to be put down, so I would do that, and scratch behind your ears as you lay on one of your high perches. They were all around the house. Through you, I discovered that Burmese cats love to climb and be high. It was easier for me, too; I didn’t have to stoop to caress you. When I was done – when you began to fall asleep, or I felt the need to attend to my tasks – I would show you my open palm, then close it deliberately, twice. I taught you that as a signal to say, ‘We’re done for now. See you later.’ You were profoundly deaf, so I needed to find visual ways to communicate. A friend once witnessed you respond to this hand gesture with a long, slow blink of your eyes … the cat signal for ‘I love you.’

We loved each other. And now you are gone. Never was a cat of mine so thoroughly gone! Others did little hauntings for a while after they died – such as my first cat, Guinivere, lying on the clean clothes in the ironing basket (which she was not allowed to do in life); the kids and I caught frequent glimpses. Or my last before you, Selene, chasing her toys along the passage with familiar little rustlings and tinklings, after she’d died and the toys were put away. But you – you were gone.

For the first month I spring-cleaned the house like mad. Not before time! I didn’t quite finish the job, but I got most of it done. ‘Keep busy’ has always been my strategy for dealing with grief.

The next month was the complete opposite. I sank into inaction, lethargy, possibly depression. I sought escape, into fairly mindless romance novels and Netflix shows. I didn’t want to be with my own thoughts. All kinds of things that needed doing got ignored. Also I wept.

Now it's the third month. Finally, I know what to do with my grief. I write.

Perspective

… might be the same as perspicacity, allowing one to see

in different directions … indifferent directions, not mattering

if back or forwards, a long way away or right up close to the eye.

I am writing on computer. My hand doesn’t flow. But the words 

flow, so in that way the writing is flowing. It goes where my mind 

wanders. A smattering of images, of small recognitions.

Behind my eyes, my little black cat comes walking. (I only

closed them a moment, drifting off.) Up across my lap where

I sit at my desk, as if floating smoothly from the floor ... further.

In life she would jump on the couch, traverse the surfaces

of TV table (in front of the screen, ignoring it), then low cupboard

onto coffee table, along my desk behind laptop and printer –

reaching at last the chest of drawers where she stood to gaze 

through the glass of the sliding door's big window, thence at last 

into her cosy cat bed high on top of her tall scratching post.

What did she see when she stared out into the yard and up

over the slats of the fence? Nothing I could ever discern; but cats, 

Google tells me, have a different, more inclusive kind of vision.

She never before walked across my lap as if it was a thoroughfare,

head down, focused forward. My lap and arms were refuges,

places to stay and nestle in and purr; her perspective filled, right here.

Now, does this lone visitation, already two weeks and a half since she 

left the physical world, carry the simple message of moving on? If I seek 

to keep her close, is my perspective distorted? In that time she has been 

far, she’s been utterly gone – unlike all my other cats

who insistently, happily haunted for days, weeks, even months

after their bodies had left. (She was never like any other cats.) 

It’s a good telescope I have, I decide. At any moment I can choose 

to turn its intended direction, bringing her image up close, filling my view. 

Or let it rest as the maker designed, seeing her small form recede …

She was a wise little thing, grounded in reality and now: what was so 

in any moment. Sometimes she treated me as her mother; sometimes 

her kitten who needed to be taught. She had enormous stores of calm.

Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United, for Friday Writings #242: Perspective. It's attempting to be a zuihitsu, a form I'm recently exploring somewhat uncertainly.

Void

 

‘She’s not cold tonight,’

I think suddenly –

passing the heater where 

I would leave a blanket for her

to lie on, these winter nights.

I can’t stop myself 

from that quick glance  

checking her kitty litter

every time I pass the laundry – 

where there is no kitty litter now.

Her soft rugs

from all over the house

have been taken down 

from her perches and nests,

the hair brushed off, and washed.

I remove the covers

protecting my lounge suite 

from enthusiastic scratches.

It does look nice,

now that we can see it.

I clean and put away 

her food and water dishes,

gather left-over food supplies

to give to the vet for others …

it’s best to keep busy.

My little cat, Poppi, died of a sudden seizure, in the vet's arms, on Thursday morning – two days ago. Apparently a  brain tumour, not uncommon at her age (15) and nothing that anyone could have done. This photo , showing the covered couch, taken in April this year (2026).

Sharing with Friday Writings #241: Change at Poets and Storytellers United.

My Cat, Poppi

 

This little one, neatly made, quick to jump to a high place, either for resting or vantage, or with tiny paws flip a blanket over her own curved, snuggling back: agile, heat-seeking, comfort-loving, curious, adept … changeable moment to moment, yet she is definite, predictable: creating her life with both whim and established habit.

A fine intelligence shines from her eyes. She is knowing, sums me up every moment. She is wise, accepting my limitations: I’m only human. She is demanding, knowing her due; miaowing bugle-call loud when she needs: food / a clean litter tray / scritches and cuddles (reasonable demands, I say).

Tit for tat. When I stroke or hug her, she purrs deep, nestles in. I kiss the top of her dainty, wee head. One afternoon, lying down for a nap, I rouse to find her licking my hair just where it edges my forehead – grooming me, like one of her kittens. 

The smallest cat I ever had, and the sweetest-natured, she is nevertheless queen of her domain. I only live here. 

We both know my function: to care. We both know hers: to be, thereby to delight.

~ Small cat in high place, with blanket and view ~

Written for FridayWritings #191: Small but Beautiful, at Poets and Storytellers United. I've also attempted to write this as a flash poem: a form of prose poetry characterised by brevity and intensity. (My first attempt. Not sure I've pulled it off.)

Blazon for Poppi:

my cat Poppi who is as wise as night-time

and as sensible as the day;

who mothers me as I mother her;

my cat Poppi who is small and sleek,

not black though she looks black,

but sable, red-brown in the light;

who loves warmth and lies by the heater

or tucks herself under blankets;

whose little face is the sweetest;

who loves to cuddle, purring;

who, being profoundly deaf,

has mastered body language 

and an expressive miaow;

who likes to rest on her pillow 

on my bed, to be near me;

who is nocturnal and spends her nights

up on the window-sill, gazing out at the street

or in daytime peers through the big glass door 

at nothing I can see, but she is fascinated;

who is Burmese, and likes to be up high,

leaping with agility despite her old age; Poppi who 

is the perfect cat for me at this late time of my life.

A blazon is a French form which lists attributes of the beloved.

I'm linking this to Friday Writings #158 at Poets and Storytellers United, where we are invited to write about what comes to mind when we see the word "prioritize".  This poem was already written, but it's hard to think of a better fit. My little cat is a top priority for me, as she is dependent on me for absolutely everything — a responsibility I take very seriously, as well as gladly.

Why I Like Living [Revision]

… although I think my cat does it better. Still,

as I can’t be her, I can at least enjoy her –

that sleek, soft fur, and the long low purr

she gives me when I stroke her after she’s 

just awoken, or at any time really. And then, 

I like the scent of roses – to stoop to them, 

low; breathe them in, deep and slow. 

What blessings are our noses! Without those 

versatile organs, we’d all be losers. 

But as one door closes, another opens: 

the seasonal flowers must die down 

now, in the slowing of autumn, before 

being reborn. Yet I can’t be forlorn 

when every new cloud thrills me with beauty,

or when the moon shines full, or I grab a mango

and taste my fill. 

My friend sends a video of her afternoon,

in her new home, peacefully gazing at rain

through her picture window; in the background

Tony Martin and k.d. lang singing – bringing

her own pleasure over the streets and houses to me, 

where I’m alone and now no longer alone. Though

the tone of the day might seem subdued, yet I feel

I could rise and dance a fandango, springing

from my chair to whirl in the air, flinging wide 

my hands; or segue to a tango, imagining arms

that I have known, fond arms, holding me, bold 

and tender, shouldering a kind share of my cares. And 

if all I can do now is call on memory, still how I like

to dream and remember.... Yes, I like my living,

I like my loving: all that I’ve done, and all that as long

as Fate weaves, I will.

[Earlier version posted 13 April '24.]

Sharing this with Poets United for Friday Writings #147, my own prompt: What soothes you? I didn't write this for the prompt, but it contains various things which soothe me and make me feel better whatever the circumstances: being out in nature, my beloved cat, music that I like, good friends, lovely memories ...