Fate [Revision]

1.

‘No more cats!’ I vowed, when

Freya and Levi (numbers 6 and 7

brother and sister) finally, in turn

crossed the Rainbow Bridge, at 

a goodly age, only a year apart. 

‘It hurts too much,’ I said.

But my friend’s daughter, who 

bought Queenie off Gum Tree, 

had a sudden change of circumstance, 

couldn’t keep her. ‘Please!’ 

begged my friend. ‘She’s so lovely!’ 

(Her own landlord didn’t allow.)

‘Don’t let her go to the Pound!’ So I didn’t. 

I renamed her Selene (moon goddess)

rhyming with the name she knew.

She was elegant, mysterious, aloof

as the moon, or a goddess. And traumatised

by two so sudden changes of home.

It took months for us to get past detente.

But she went from wary to sleeping on me, 

purring. And I came to love her fiercely. 

She wasn’t young, and carried within her

seeds of an unknown illness. The vet said

to investigate further risked in itself killing her.

Three happy years, then a sudden decline.

I did what I had to, to save her further pain.

‘That’s really it!’ I said. ‘I can’t go past

that intense, unexpected love, that too-brief

fulfilment, that piercing grief. No more

cats, ever! This time I really mean it.’

2.

Only a few months later, friend-of-a-friend’s 

dearly-loved puss could not travel with them 

to their new home (long story). To be ‘put down,’

only because they couldn’t allow her to go 

to just anyone. I arranged a few visits to Poppi 

and her people, for us all to get acquainted. 

A dignified little personage, she liked me 

at once. When the time came, I didn’t fetch her; 

they brought her to me, with all her familiar stuff.

Her favourite person hugged her goodbye, imploring,

 ‘Take good care of her!’ – unshed tears

misting his eyes. ‘I promise!’ I said.

She settled in, explored the space. The third day

she went all over as if looking for something … 

someone? But then she turned wholeheartedly 

to me. Loved and pampered all her life, affection

and trust came easily to her. And she knew me,

knew that I came with her first family’s blessing.

She’s an old girl (like me) – ten when she moved in. 

Now, three and a bit years later, she’s my treasure, my 

constant joy, my greatest blessing, and yes, my dear love, 

the perfect cat for me in this present time – which seems

as if it will stretch a lot longer yet. Lightning strikes twice! 

Two major events: unforeseen, undesired. Miraculous!

[Revised 3 July '24. Earlier draft posted 8 April.]

Fate?

A mistake. You might say a mischance.

Not really supposed to happen.

Not in my agenda, definitely against.

‘No more cats!’ I vowed, when

Freya and Levi (numbers 6 and 7,

brother and sister) finally, in turn,

crossed the Rainbow Bridge – at 

a goodly age, only a year apart. 

‘It hurts too much,’ I told myself.

 And for a while it was nice to have 

more money, and the freedom 

to stay out late or even go away.

But then my friend’s daughter, who 

not long before bought Queenie 

off Gum Tree, had a sudden change 

of circumstance, couldn’t keep her.

‘Please!’ begged my friend. ‘She’s so 

lovely!’ (Her own landlord didn’t allow.)

‘Don’t let her go to the Pound!’

So I didn’t. I renamed her Selene,

rhyming with the name she knew.

She was elegant, mysterious, aloof

as a moon goddess. And traumatised

by two so sudden changes of home.

It took months for us to get past detente.

But I came to love her fiercely. She went

from wary to sleeping on me and purring.

She wasn’t young, and carried within her

seeds of an unknown illness. The vet said

to investigate further risked in itself killing her.

Three happy years, then a sudden decline.

I did what I had to, to save her further pain.

‘That’s really it!’ I said. ‘I can’t go past

that intense, unexpected love, that too-brief

fulfilment, that piercing grief. No more

cats, ever! This time I really mean it.’

Fate had a fresh surprise for me, only a few 

months later. Friend-of-a-friend’s dear cat unable

to accompany them to a new home (long story).

About to be put down, only because they couldn't

allow her to go to just anyone. Fair enough. 

We arranged that I’d make a few visits, become 

acquainted with Poppi. A dignified little personage, 

she liked me at once. When the time came, they 

brought her to my place, with all her familiar stuff.

Her favourite person hugged her goodbye.

‘Take good care of her!’ he implored, tears

unshed misting his eyes. ‘I promise!’ I said.

She settled in, explored the space. The third day

she went all over as if looking for something … 

or someone? But then she turned wholeheartedly 

to me. Loved and pampered all her life, affection

and trust came easily to her. And she knew me,

knew that I came with her first family’s blessing.

I didn’t fall all the way in love at once. But I did

like her very much. It wasn't long until I realised

she’s not only cute but sweet-natured, and very smart.

She’s another old girl (like me) – ten when she moved in. 

Now, three and a bit years later, she’s my treasure, my 

constant joy, my greatest blessing, and yes, my dear love, 

the perfect cat for me at this present time – which seems

as if it will stretch a lot longer yet. Lightning strikes twice! 

Two unforeseen, undesired, miraculous major events.

[See revised version.]

Combining the NaPoWriMo prompt to write about a meeting/interaction that wasn't supposed to happen with the PAD prompt of a major event.

Selene

Poppi

At Times ...

At Times …

I have, at times, a slight wheeze
in the back of my throat,
which, coming up unexpectedly
as if from nowhere, sounds just like
the plaintive miaow of my last cat –
my darling, my treasure –
a strange foundation
for loving memory, I must say,
yet no less affecting for that,
catching me quite like a sob….


Written in response to Poets and Storytellers United's Weekly Scribblings #34: Foundation.

'These Foolish Things ...'

'These Foolish Things …'
(remind me of you)


My Dad loved gardening, and loved the hardy red geraniums he grew. So I learned to love them too. I’ve brought them to every home I’ve had, in every climate; waiting eagerly to see their cheery faces – even when bushfire summer cloaked the sky in smoke, even when all other flowers wilted fast …

rainy autumn –
my red geraniums
finally bloom


When Grandma came to stay, she told my Dad it would be good for me to start my own little garden.  He gave me a tiny trowel. Soon I dug up a huge coil of grey slime, semi-transparent, as long as my five-year-old hand and nearly as thick. It moved blindly through the suddenly-exposed earth. I gagged, ran crying … and never became a gardener. Now at last, in old age, I do a little pruning and weeding when the cooler weather begins – by which time it’s needed.

after
the hot wet summer
healthy weeds


It’s that time of year. Still warm, but not the fierce heat. Just now, no mosquitoes, no midges, no flies. Afternoon is golden, evening softly pleasant. I think of sitting out in my back yard, taking my book and my cuppa. Or I could do my meditation there. Or I might simply gaze at the trees against the sky, over my neighbours’ adjoining fences. But I’m still a little afraid that a tiny ghost might join me there, and I’m not yet readier to smile than weep if she did.

quiet garden –
the knowing eyes
of a small cat


Written for  Weekly Scribblings #13: All The Small Things at Poets and Storytellers United, and combined with the April 2020 NaPoWriMo Day 1 prompt at 'imaginary garden with real toads': April is for Fools and Poets. These are meant as individual haibun, but they do also form a sequence of sorts.

Just Another Night At Home [prose]

Just Another Night At Home

Late night, wet night, but in here warm and dry. I like the deep nights without intrusion: the street silent, my thoughts clear. I'm reading poems online, sinking into them ... I'm lulled by the rain....

The small one sneezes softly, just once, from down there by my left knee – a favourite spot of hers during my desk times. The sound brings me out of the trance I’d begun falling into.

It's as if she's warning me, ’Hey, you’re getting tired. Better get up from there now and go to bed.’

Always something of a habit of hers, looking after me like this: the tiny sneeze meant as a signal. (Not much of a miaow-er this one; and purring mostly reserved for later, when actually in the bed together.)

I don’t even need to turn my head to see her there, her own head tilted up quizzically: that pretty little face, white whiskers crisp against black fur.…

Of course I know that when I do turn my head, I won’t see her – not with my eyes. It’s just over a year ago that she left me, unable to anchor herself in her slight body any longer. I’m touched that she still comes to say hello, still looks after me. I guess there are all kinds of angels.

wet night outside
but safe in here and cosy
in spite of tears



Shared with Rommy's Weekly Scribblings #10 at Poets and Storytellers United, in which she asks, Early Bird or Night Owl? No prizes for guessing which one I am!

Summer Love #1: Summer Love

The first in the 'Summer Love' series this July at Carpe Diem Haiku Kai: an 'extreme haibun' (50 words altogether) on that theme.

Summer Love

She needed a new home. Not a young cat,  she was already eight. Wary, suspicious, defensive, she gradually became secure, trusting, loving – intensely loving. And I loved her, as never before. Her various illnesses didn’t show up immediately.

Summer when she came.

She left three summers later.

Now, increasing cold.

She

She

White whiskers against black fur – I miss her.

Such an elegant creature. I miss her.

She loved to play, and entice me to play.

I dangled cords, rolled balls for her. I miss her.

She climbed on the back of the old pink couch 

to smooch me in the next chair. I miss her.

Although she was the smallest, slightest cat,

none had such presence, such air. I miss her.

She would seem to dematerialise

then suddenly reappear. I miss her.

At night in bed she'd lie across my thighs

(a lap's a lap anywhere). I miss her.

Not for food but as toys, she chased lizards.

Tough hides (and I) thwarted her. I miss her.

Indoors, I only had to tell her once:

'Forbidden!' – then she'd never. I miss her.

From a sweet little face, her piercing eyes

would hold me in a long stare. I miss her.

Both the house and the yard belonged to her.

She made that perfectly clear. I miss her.

She'd sit on my legs while I watched TV,

watch and listen too, and purr. I miss her.

I, Rosemary (Remembrance) forget none.

Yet let me declare – now, here, I miss her.

Written for Poetry form: Ghazal at dVerse.

I Scarcely Realised

I Scarcely Realised

I hid my grief. Out and about

I was normal, bright, busy.

At home I was weeping 

suddenly, unplanned,

unanticipated even, all over 

my days and bereft nights

in abrupt, startling moments.

She was so absent! My other 

beloved cats all came visiting 

in spirit soon after leaving

– often – and still do. But she

felt utterly gone. Not a sign.

Just memories, I thought –

going about my life as before,

only that she who had been

so very present, wasn’t. Oh,

I could see her in my mind

everywhere she’d ever been,

little creature of habit and routine,

and that made me cry more.

Finally, I don’t know what shifted

(but I’d done some energy work 

of course) anyway I just realised:

that’s how she’s visiting. She’s here!

She’s reminding me, comforting me,

doing the same as always – 
gazing intently as always, with those
purposeful, speaking eyes: ever
the telepathic cat. That understanding
must have made everything possible.
I lay down today for an afternoon rest.
(She always loved when I did that.)
I didn’t sleep but relaxed, eyes closed.
Soon I felt the familiar warm weight
on my thighs, where she’d always settle.

I scarcely realised she wasn’t still alive.

For day 26 of April Poems at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are asked to write about 'those moments of re-charging, rebooting, re-winding, re-birthing'. With perfect

synchronicity, today I experienced this moment.

Haibun: Autumn chill

Haibun: Autumn chill

My little cat liked to do a daily inspection of ‘her’ back yard – a small area enclosed by high fences, with a few plants in pots and a flourishing crop of weeds in narrow beds edging the space. She would sit on a central paving stone and look around in a leisurely sweep, first at the ground, then up to the tops of the fences. She’d saunter over to sniff the grasses in the weed patch before selecting one with a sharp edge to rub along her neck. Now that she is not here, I inspect the garden for her – watering the pot-plants, pulling the worst of the weeds, patting in passing the outdoor chair where she occasionally rested (though she preferred to lie under it). One day I’ll resume sitting out here, meditating.

the sun withdraws

from my silent garden

evenings lengthen

In The Touch of Snow, day 15 of Poems in April at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are asked for a haibun of 44-150 words on any event in our lives. (Mine is 144 words without title.)