My cat patters to the window and looks out. I see nothing in the shadows but the dark trees that have always frightened me. Branches like hand bones and a numb sky moonlit and vaguely violet. His gaze catches what I can’t — a creature ambles over the grass into the dark below. What eludes me he knows in passing came before. This guide of mine offers no clue. I wait for a sound or something literal to grasp onto. I wish in the shapeless darkness to claim what perturbs him. I really hope, in that shapeless light, to not be deceived.
The man sat in the wheelbarrow, his keepers at bay. Head covered in dirt, he mouthed to us that he was still alive; because of the muted-reality nature of this final performance, the death crew didn’t stop. They are after one thing. There is a eulogy to give and most cliches fit the bill. Yet I can’t stop thinking one thing about the inevitability of it all. I can understand his frustrations in life, but not his manner of death. What is it that I understand now. It must have been a far drop — a silence, a call, or the cat crossing atop the fence at dawn. These are all things, I say.
It’s time to be friendly and even though we will not be friends, we can share a moment of warmth and conviviality. I think that’s the most honest thing you can expect from me, and me you. Distill me through the distractions and look hard and long into my eyes before you shut the door.