Momento Murray

-Some Poems-

In search of peaches

It was September of 2008.
We drove east in an old Ford pick-up in search of Ontario peaches.
I wore beige.
He, put a chaise lounge in the back.

I drove.
He, played “All by Myself” on a brass saxophone in the back.
We, headed north at the first great lake.
The south wind pushed from behind.

We, found only a sour cherry tree with an old Russian couple underneath.
We, passed by three Elk on the way home.
He, squatted in the back.
I drove-strange and square.

At the door

That Christian at the door
plugging the good word
I peer through the window
at his short hair
and mousy jacket
I wonder if his dick
could rule a nation.

Mother’s Day

I never knew where all the Oreo cookies went,
you were chubby.
I ate as much as you,
But was always skinny.
You probably never knew where all the Oreo cookies went either.

You recently cut down the tree I use to read under in my youth,
I secretly cried.
Each layer represented a different story:
Chop-Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native
Cut-Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha
Slice-The biography of Arthur Rimbaud
I’m crying now.
It’s sick you said.
I knew it wasn’t.
Now, you’re the next-door neighbor you never wanted to be.

I put on the earrings you gave me as a family heirloom and felt fat.
The small pendants of faith, hope and charity
now read more like symbols of some ancient curse or hex.
I feel fat.
I took them off.

I’m spending Mother’s Day in prison,
although I did not commit a crime.
I love you,
but bought flowers for myself instead.
I also helped make the cards.
I’m sure there’s one with your name on it.

Guru Nanak, Jane Austin and 10 pounds heavier in the Punjab-A Travelogue Part. 2

The following day was dedicated to recuperating from the long flight and getting acquainted with a culture with whom I would spend the next month. It established a pattern that would come to dominate many of my days for the remainder of the visit. The men would be gone by 7 am not to return until past 10pm. M. would casually go about her day, without me, planning her wedding which was in three weeks. Mataji watched a lot of Indian Soap Operas and often lounged in the courtyard looking after Deepa’s infant son, the ivory skinned young wife of Vijay, as she went about her daily routine of making up to five fresh meals, socializing with neighbors and other household duties.

Amanjeet, the young girl who often spent the evenings with me and brought to bed a mathematics textbook that most likely weighed at much as she did, went to school in the day but returned around 4pm to congregate with the rest of the women into a tiny room off the main courtyard with a bed, almost the size of the room, and a television which aired the most popular Punjabi drama series. Six women and a young child took turns in various positions on the bed; Mataji always got to lean against the top headboard under multiple pillows for back support. Her pudgy rolls made beautiful cascading hills under her simple cotton pajama–like gown that she was seldom not seen waddling around wearing. The rest of us, those not lucky enough to secure the remaining two spots at the top with Mataji, spent the hour sitting at the bed’s side or base feigning comfort.

I recall becoming bored within the first week of this routine and decided to help myself to a walk, for the first time, out of what I came to call the family “compound.” I simply pulled the iron caste gate open when I noticed Mataji waddling away to change the baby after he had peed all over her gown. Just learning to crawl and never wearing a diaper, his bare bottom and underdeveloped penis wiggling around the courtyard, under Mataji’s or Deepa’s close watch, that periodically ejaculated urine all over the floor or onto whoever was holding him, including myself, became a curiosity and source of humour far more intriguing than any hour long soap opera in Hindi.

With Mataji off with baby, I, innocently enough, slipped through the main entrance door and out for my first taste of freedom in the streets of Chandigarh. First thing I did was light up a cigarette, last tasted in the Kuwaiti airport; it had not retained its shape after the flight. I looked far from the heavy smoker that I was, short bobbed hair was customary back in those days, plus simple and conservative attire that made me indistinguishable in a crowd. I walked up the narrow street to find an open and busy main road complete with roundabout, and every mode of transportation imaginable; from Audis to scooters carrying families of five, bikes carrying bundles of burnable wood, ox drawn cart wagons and food venders pulling their stands to their next destination.
The sight was recognizable from the drive in; however, after being in an enclosed network of buildings for four days, I was overwhelmed by the chaos. I noticed the pile of refuse on my right complete with scavenging cattle and an entrance way which seemed to lead to a well populated merchant avenue. I, happily puffing on ciggy, and clad in canvas shoes with little support for a potentially long walk, darted into the avenue, foolishly unaware or perhaps uncaring of my failure to pay attention to the directions back to my temporary home.

Dust, everywhere-the place seemed dry as a bone. The streets while not dirty per se, but lacked the colour I hoped would be prevalent throughout India. This long winding avenue felt like it was located in the American southwest or perhaps adjacent to a desert whose companion the wind blew as a reminder of its presence through the entrance, somewhere, not visible to sight. The shops catered to the needs of Chandigarhian men and women; seamstresses, spice vendors, beauty suppliers and tobacconists. I was caught buying a ridiculously affordable pack of 300 Beedi cigarettes-small half-size smokes rolled cylindrically without a filter, in rich brown natural rolling paper-which I knew I could freeze upon returning home and smoke for the remainder of the Canadian winter.

“Carrie, what are you doing?” Kala let out a hysterical laugh at the sight of me with a 300 pack of Beedies. “Are you going to share those with friends?” At least he had a sense of humour. He looked stunning, in simple jeans, stripped shirt, buzz cut hair, and while he wore the thin silver bracelet on his right wrist-a Kara-indicating a Sikh background, he did not wear a customary turban. His face was warm and bright, always smiling, even if he was perturbed at apparently being pulled out of work at Vijay’s bathroom cabinetry supply store to track down a foreigner, he never let onto to it.

The fact was I felt fat and lethargic. Kala walked me back home while pointing out sights along the way. Later that evening well past 10, Amanjeet had yet to arrive, so I gave in and pulled out a chair from the room, ciggy and Jane Austin and found the best voyeur position on the rooftop to watch the still bustling street life of near and far below. I heard footsteps from behind and turned around expecting to find Amandeep with heavy textbook, instead bearish Vijay, with thick black beard, navy blue suite and orange turban stood smiling with pearly white teeth behind me.

“Oh, a roof robber,” I joked, hoping he had the same humour as Kala. “Oh,” he gasped, “you like to read,” noticing my book. I had smoked down the cigarette and hoped the smell would be overwhelmed by the thickly scented Punjabi air. “I will be right back.” He raised a finger to indicate a brief moment and returned a few minutes later, while I contemplated why I felt the need to hide from this family that I was a smoker. When he returned, he carried three large volumes of the life and times of Guru Nanak-the founder of the Sikh religion-whose icon I recognized as hung throughout the house. “You will like these, we will make a good Indian woman of you yet.” He laughed, somewhat sinisterly which made me wonder whether he was serious or not. Before turning to walk down the stairs leading into the main house, he called back and informed me Amandeep would not be coming tonight, “so ensure you lock the door.” I, left alone, pulled out another cigarette, to enjoy a few hours of Punjabi nightlife.

***

I woke up the next morning to find Kala waiting in the courtyard with a scooter and his usual big grin. “I am taking you out.” Right on, I thought, but having grown accustomed to the routine of 10 o’clock chai, breakfast dal and rich ghee fried green onion chapatis, I asked if he didn’t mind waiting for me to eat. “Not a problem, Carrie.”

The film Amelie had been released the previous year and I had fashioned my bob after the ever so affable character; now, I had my own personal East Indian Nino as I hopped onto the back of gleefully smiling Kala’s scooter. It felt good and liberating and oh so rebellious to wrap my legs and arms around an Indian man as the gates, this time, were mechanically opened for us. I felt the protrusion of my first belly being formed as we sped off for a taste of socially sanctioned freedom, with the score “La Valse d’Amelie” playing in the back of my head.

To be continued…

Guru Nanak, Jane Austin and 10 pounds heavier in the Punjab-A Travelogue Part. 1

*Dedicated to the Sharma family of Chandigarh, India and my first Women’s Studies teacher at the University of Manitoba who informed me she hated women who only aspired to be over-educated beach (ski) bunnies.
________________________________________

I’m taking the milk run!

How could I not, I mean, stopping down in Chicago, Amsterdam and Kuwait all before reaching Delhi International. It was cheaper that flying Air India anyway and I could wait the six hour difference for M. in the airport. I don’t mind, heck I’m going to India!

No, no, no, M. wiggled her head in the typical East Indian fashion, ear to shoulder instead of the accustomed turning of one’s head left to right. It was what I loved about her. She replied to me in the typical tone, responsible mother, with an East Indian accent: “It is too dangerous; you will be flying close to Iraq. There is war going on, you could be shot.” “I’m chancing it,” I stated.

M. turned back to the travel agent and finished the interaction in Hindi. All I understood was the accha, accha, accha at the end of the sentence-a rough translation of okay or affirmation in English.
We finished paying and left the agency with tickets in hand, mine nicely concealed in a Kuwait Airline folder, her with a comforting Air India symbol.

I remember little of the flight. The windy city-Chicago-conjures up a search for french fries that lead me into a swank hotel lounge at happy hour. The stop down in Amsterdam procured a trio of French speaking Hara Krishna followers garbed in white togas and leather jackets. They sat four rows up from me on the flight onwards and acted as a constant focal point of interest. On the descent into Kuwait City, over the roadway by Shuwaikh Beach, the many Mercedes Benz on the long narrow strip of sandy road was quite the sight. I was amazed at the female security guards in the airport, who wand searched me in high heels and short skirts. Why had I been painting a different picture?

I arrived in Delhi, over 24 hours later, to an airport size that did not reflect India’s population. Four men waited for me with a sign that read, “Carrie from Winnipeg.” I, groggy and feeling slightly sheepish after such a long flight, walked up to them for introductions.

The first to step up to me was Kala, a jovial young man who never ceased smiling. “Allo Carrie,” how I wish the accent translated onto paper, “how was your flight?” Next, up was Sunny. Tall, skinny, with a pocked marked face that set him apart from the others, he was M.’s fiancé whom I remembered from photos. He looked older than I thought and far more sheepish than I felt. His face had given him a distinct personality set; I spoke directly to him seldom throughout the journey. Sunny’s brother Savinder was also among the crowd, short, thin and sharp looking, while not inheriting his brother’s face. A big man, Vijay, took my hand with authority and welcomed me to India. We waited around for the next six hours for M. to arrive. I, dozing off, seated between four men in the airport lounge, watching the Hare Krishnas out of the corner of my eye until they too, were picked up by fellow followers.

M. arrived many hours later. I remember her walking out of the airport’s tinted sliding doors with her newly bought luggage, which made me chuckle as I had yet to truly realize how different we actually were. I threw my well used backpack over left shoulder when Kala protested and promptly took it off my back. I had almost zero energy and decided not to make a fuss.

I asked almost no imperative questions during the route from Delhi to Chandigarh which could have aided my recollections. I was overwhelmed by a crammed jeep that sped through a movable feast of elements that transitioned endlessly from city to village to the rare stretch of agricultural land. I was a mere ghost visiting a life giving country whose visual textures and stimulating aromas refreshed a dormant mind. The conversations in Hindi, carried on periodically, did little to inform me of my whereabouts, the hours to my destination or calm my somewhat nervous disposition towards the food being ingested at the Punjabi truck stops along the way.

We arrived at a large marble castle; the refuse pile and cattle collection on the corner before the final turn did not give insight into its secret location. Two iron doors mechanically opened onto a large courtyard where an array of eclectically coloured Sari-clad women stood waiting. It was unfortunate that the first thing I noticed was that the fairness of their skin as a potential indication of status.

I recall, visiting Bali, whose Hindu roots tied it to old systems of class taxonomies. On the small island, found in the cracks of the open sewage system could be found the Shudras, whom Gandhi renamed the harijans or Children of God; their already tar-like skin tone and vacant yet knowing stares at the shiny European blond tourists who would casually look down at them as they paused from scrubbing the shit lined walls of the island’s public washroom network never left me. I also remember my grade 12 Social Studies teacher telling tales of his youth spent in Trinidad, and how his Grandmother would never let him out in the sun without a long sleeved shirt on for fear of his light brown skin being darkened to less desirable shades. Perhaps, I had over read before leaving, perhaps Jane Austin in my carry-on harkened me back as Elizabeth Bennet dealing with the “social status issues” complicating her relationship with Mr. Darcy…

Mataji was on obese older woman, the family matriarch, who did not get up from her seat when I approached and with whom I had the good sense to gravitate towards first to greet. A younger and thinner woman stood to her left holding her young son. Her flawless ivory skin was offset by deep red lips and jet black hair. Two women stood on the right, one a girl in her preteens, both petite in comparison to the others and darker.

***

I could not figure out why she had to sleep with me? Robbers on the roof? The English was so far and few between, I dare not push my inquisitiveness to too far of an extreme, yet I hated sleeping with other people. I mean, are you serious? The flippin’ water in the all marble washroom was ice cold, I was so jet-legged I was delirious and all I wanted was a cigarette, Jane Austin and to watch the insanity of the city street life from the roof-top on which my guest room was located. But no, no, no, I had a preteen coming over to sleep with me to keep me safe from roof-top night robbers. Do they look like pirates? Do they smoke-cause a ciggy would sure help this headache right now.

***

Just Dig Up Shakespeare… for R.H.

I am seated beside an old man convinced he is going to die tomorrow. In fact I believe he has thought he was going to die every day for the last ten years. Death is romantic, much like tales he tells of his Uncles mishaps during WW2, or the epic rescues of his Icelandic ex-wife’s brother in the North Sea. As for wives…he has had many. The latest and longest is foxy and dark. She is at least 20 years his junior and scurries around the apartment in a tight pink t-shirt with little crinkles between her bosoms, carefully pouring us tea while darkening the thick circles around her eyes with black liner. “I have a woman who doesn’t love me.” “Then what keeps you going?” He points to his head, “my inner life…music and books.” He is of diminutive size, and I am convinced over the last years has magically shrunk further in stature; crippled slightly like the elderly Bilbo Baggins. R.H. would never like that association as I notice a book of Pasternak on his footrest. Behind him is a huge bookshelf overflowing with modern classics. Along the corridor are more shelves also filled and back into a far room whose walls, I know are also covered- on one shelf amongst a collection of great Russian authors is a place for Boris Pasternack, “a man with a beautiful vision of his world.”

 
On reflection, I am staring into the eyes of Liam Clancy as he sings “And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda.” In their sheen is a mix of sorrow and radiant joy that enthralls me, it is the same eyes I see as my aging uncle stares up at the ceiling describing what he loves best. “Irish and Russians have a lot in common-the most nostalgic and sentimental people in the world.” It is the week before the death of Barney McKenna, although neither of us knows this at the time, and he speaks often of his and the Dubliner’s music: “…could play the banjo like no one else.” “What do you feel is the greatest accomplishment in your life”, I ask: “I sired a wonder son…two wonderful sons, who love me dearly; one a chef in Denmark, and the other a Fisherman in Iceland.” “And what do you believe happens after you die?” “Oh, just dig up Shakespeare and ask him what he thinks of it and you won’t get an answer.”

Bees Knees

We would sneak into the basement of the abandoned wing of the hospital almost every night at the stroke of twelve. Word had spread to most of the hospital’s functioning wards and into those whose ears and minds were capable of opening to the experience. It was a hot, hot summer and the sweat that dripped down our inner thighs made us mad with anticipation. However as our education had taught us; it was uncouth to show strong emotion – ladies must always remain calm, pleasant, responsive and available to the needs of others. Underneath our petticoats our nicely manicured nails would venture, at any chance moment of isolation, and smear the sweat into smooth pools around the upper four quadriceps muscles making our mouths and cheeks contort to display subtle satisfaction. When the time would come we would gently slip off our shoes and shuffle down the corridors and stairwells to room 208. A tinted stain glassed window displaying a series of starlings in flight marveled us as we entered.

 
We quietly gathered around the table to wait for the evenings orders. Annie was our leader. After a failed marriage that lasted 11 years and produced no off-spring, she had turned to the habit. Her husband, an apiarist, disappeared to the jungles of French Guiana searching for honey mixtures from a rare flower of the Passifloraceae family and kindly left her the deeds to his twenty acre homestead, containing eighteen functioning colonies and three goats that enjoyed climbing the one-story log house Annie called home. It all started when two of the younger and spirited of the night staff had discovered Annie late one night sipping homemade Mead while enjoying the gospel of Alberta Hunter in a backroom on the upper eastside. They promised to keep their mouths shut in exchange for Annie’s tutelage and secret recipes. The first few evenings were informal lessons into the fine art of home distillery, but after months of brewing and bottling their cravings grew. Soon enough a community of fourteen emerged, taking turns as their work schedule permitted, filling the abandoned bottles of room 208 with liquid gold.

 
The infirmary functioned as a recovery unit for those who had undergone major amputations in the main hospital located 23 kilometers away in town. Its secluded setting offered little to the young nurses stationed there. The days were sweltering and consumed tending to the basal needs of the bed bound patients. The nights were spent upgrading patient charts while making the hourly rounds to check pulses and bed pans. When the call came at twelve, the ladies’ gathering was eerily ritualistic. Standing around the central table they used for bottling, they silently disrobed down to their yellow sweat stained knickers; barefoot and semi-clothed made their way up the stairs and out the back door carefully kept ajar by a wooden peg. They followed kochab on clear nights through the thick aspen and birch forest to a small creek about 50 meters in; and in unison submerged their bodies, clavicle deep. Upon returning, Annie always sauntered slowly behind. At times stopping to remove her strapless bodice and ring out the creeks water. While staring up at the glittery sky, she would stretch her long golden arms around and onto her lower back and smile.

The Wind Blows

Inspired by Katherine Mansfield’s The Wind Blows

I had forgotten my phone at home as I wandered freely down the deserted road that seemed to lead nowhere. The weather was perfect, too perfect for this time of year. It was as if the weather knew I was coming and coordinated precisely with both sun and wind, to bring its beauty right here and now-to rain down on me. It was the combination of these elements that seemed to make the day perfect, on this road, adjacent to this field seeming to lead nowhere.

I was short and I knew my shortcomings. While my mind was as sharp as a hawk, and my face still fresh with the dew of youth-my squat Italian body required the kind of man who knew what to do with it. He was richly Italian, not like money but like a warm macchiato, perfect for days like this. He was skinny and tall and I kept wondering what it would be like to wrap my short, thick legs around his thin body under this tree in this field adjacent to this wine orchard. His hair was as dark as the espresso I had for breakfast, which fell in tight ringlets down to his shoulders and reminded me of my favorite Italian dessert: sfogliatelle. I was well aware that my pudgy bottom would make a great cushion to protect my body against our weight combined as we hit the ground. At least this was how I had planned it in my head.

The fact was I didn’t really know the guy. Well, I knew enough, like his brother, the Italian blond, was much hotter and older than he was. I knew that he worked in the orchard for the family that lived next door and that, as of lately, I had fallen into the habit of late afternoon walks-very unlike me. I knew that around 3 o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun had reached its peak and held steady for a few hours, he would take his sweaty work shirt off and tie his saturated hair into one of those little back ponytails that made his angular face look somewhat sinister until his now cooling body and hair dried off with the natural elements. The now frizzy hair, soften his face and made him more pleasant to swoon at, after he had turned around from his work to briefly greet me. There was something about that glistening flat chest that made my lips moist and pucker with those funny kisses as I walked away. All I could think of was Pignolata.

I reached the tree, sat down and waited. Without my phone and the demands of a demanding city. I was free to dream impossible things.

Mountaineering

I refused to eat that summer. Instead, I relied – only –  on the odd fish cake feast when not made with sugar, wild berries plucked straight off the bush and smoothies. While not hell bend on skinny thighs a skeletal frame or self-destruction, I simply refused to have any of it. Perhaps it was the rice flour desserts I haphazardly whipped together with tapioca flour and cornstarch as an additive whose texture made my fingers cringe. The overbearing glances of the old lady of the house, whose recipes and dietary needs we catered to, also prevented my intake and digestion of daily calories from being adequate.

I would sip my supplementary liquid lunches by the lake and play you love me, you love me not with the Rudbeckia petals that grew in the surrounding garden. While it always landed on you love me, my heart ached and made the completion of lunch even more unbearable.

The older server with a squeaky voice and mousy hair always showed up at one. She would spend her night drinking with the younger boys till the moon was high in the sky. She was not often seen without a bottle of cheap white wine in one hand and tonic water in the other. She lived in the cabin called the “Dog House”, which I had turned down in favour of the Cathedral –  a space shared with a buxom and gregarious German who loved Jesus almost as much as the owner’s elderly husband and the military men who spent weeks at the lodge training in advanced mountaineering skills. She was one of the few who liked my morning muffins. The squeaky voice server did her best to criticize them at any given chance; she had a background as a Pastry Chef.

There were rumors of cougar attacks in the surrounding mountains. I was mindful as I walked through the surrounding bush, and up through the territory of an old recluse named Tony who also was rumored to attack if one was caught within his territory. The trails beyond his stronghold were remote and despite the amount of abandoned infrastructure, were pleasant walking grounds. Tony, a despised character, was credited with bulldozing down half the mountain for his own “easy access” roads and resource extraction. His house always looked empty. While the strange sensations I received when passing through the area, which I accredited to my intuitive nature, told me otherwise. Never once did I catch glimpse of Tony. More than once, I tripped over the barbed wire surrounding his house and roads.

The fresh air at the top of the mountain whose trail – Khyber pass – lead me through a fireweed paradise where I derived pleasure form the occasional piss on the side of the old logging road. There is nothing like squatting, bare ass spread over a patch of delicate lilac wildflowers, and staring at the adjacent valley’s curvatures. It increased the bellies propensity to food.

Signs you’re in the right place

 

 

Dear Grief,

I haven’t felt you in such a long time.

I mean I ‘ve cried in the past few years, or even looking back five years-but I failed to remember just how deeply grief was felt in that funny thing we call the human soul.

Things die. I get it. The world is a terrifying and brutal place at times. Heartless and cruel it strikes out at the most unassuming victims-attacking indiscriminately at both strong and weak. People lose loved ones, people lose legs, and people fail to keep alive their most valued attachments; be it a plant, animal or some other life force. And put simply; people kill.

The last time I ALMOST lost a pet was well over 7 years ago now. With the almost losing of that most precious possession was pretty much the loss of all other material items I owned. My life savings went into trying to heal that creature, I borrowed, I sold, I schemed. After all the money was gone, the cat healed itself. The vets could offer no rational explanation, no sensible solution, the answer was found in a can of pure pumpkin puree.

Two weeks later, I was unable to pay rent at my duplex of 8 years and jobless-convinced that some sinister metaphysical force was at work directly linking my bank job to cat mystery ailment. I put my remaining possessions in my old hand me down van, pulled the last of my lavender out of the backyard herb garden (whose penis-like shape always made me laugh each time I watered); left beyond an infatuation with the “boy” down the street still dwelled upon to this day (Oh St. Michael, its rapture! Do you know how many times I stabbed myself in the heart? I confess I use to call your house “Stormhold,” dress up, pour a glass of wine, turn on Nina Simone and wait for you to come over! I particularly remember the night before “departure” sitting in the middle of an empty living room in an even emptier house, drunk, nostalgic and listening to “Lilac Wine” in the dark.) and put the now healthy cat(s) into summer boarding with an ex-coworker.

With a full tank of gas and $60 to my name, I headed out of town to what would begin an endless cycle of “just making it.” They supplied the room and board (i.e. rustic cabin in woods) while I worked and saved-attempting to find my financial grounding once again. On a side note, I have yet to accomplish this.

I was young. I learned last week I am still young.

There was nothing wrong with you.

The last time we went to a vet was two years ago for updated shots-a requirement for the next set of summer sitters. I guess I had grown more cynical with the system than I had thought.

This summer, the sitter e-mailed a week before I finished a two month cycling tour north. In reality, I can’t afford to do anything but work. The trip was a self-esteem booster. Look what you can do woman! Of course, every cyclist I met on the journey was travelling the circumference of the globe.

“Your cat is peeing all over the place”- the cat, meaning the other one, the tiny, unassuming, kinda moody cat with whom I had seldom had problems.

The “white witch/cat lady” I lived with previous to the journey had three pudgy, Friska-fed felines. “Your grey cat looks underweight. I think she might have diabetes.” No, I don’t really like you bitch. No, I didn’t really say that, although I might have felt it. “I don’t want you testing her for diabetes, she’s been tested before. I’m thin, we’re both thin, I have had her for close to 9 years and not seen much of a fluctuation in her weight. She’s fine.”

I responded to this e-mail similarly. “A uti?” Yes, it might be-my cousin’s cat had that-he just kept picking up special uti food. “She’s okay today?” Perhaps she is just responding to your pregnancy? Doesn’t like the litter box location? Perhaps too many cats in the house? Are you conning me, bitch? Maybe she doesn’t like your husband? Are you conning me bitch? How much extra money do you want? Are you conning me bitch?

Whitehorse, I like you. I need new. I don’t want to leave. I need to get my cats here fast. I am just making it. What drove me to this journey? I am so sorry creature. You’ll heal, you seem to be drinking, eating-just be patient it will clear up.

I made an appointment with the vet the morning you died. You were in pain; I did not see it until after your death. I did other things with the little money I had left. I paid to get you here safely but I did not prioritize your physical well-being. I strove.

“I’m scared.” “I know little lady.”

You were the cuddler, tiny and weak. We had been drinking coffee and reading, sometimes endless hours, in the morning together for ten years. Oh, there goes the boy down the street in the early days. The countless months of “indoor gardening” on Ross and all the other places in-between, seldom stayed at long.

We had always cuddled like this hadn’t we? Are you dreaming?

“Meooow.”

“I know little lady. I need to go into town and clean the shit off the blankets and make an appointment for you.” Please just stay put. I just want to keep you wrapped in that blanket and warm. The new place is cold and awkward- I know.

I buried you myself. I let ridiculous emotions flow….I ate now bitter cranberries beside your dead body while I dug, I managed to break the shovel, worried about bears and foxes, worried that the odd passing vehicle might think I was burying something other than a pet, burned sweet grass, and thought about ridiculous and arrogant things- three feet of the most delicate Yukon soil. I return daily to place a stone on your grave. Whose tradition is that anyways?

Oversight, arrogance, negligence, deaf…ness.

I loved you so much creature and I am so sorry.