I am hunting for the sound of you,
scouring songs, dissembling diatribes, to re-find your voice.
I thought I heard you this morning
in the howl of an owl,
but when I listened more closely,
he was just confused.
He said, whoooooo, whoooooo,
As if you two had never met.
Please find me.
Her love was of the type more quietly known than externally expressed, like a
1950’s father who knows best- the type who loves you with spankings
and admonishment, but keeps a job he hates so that you can go to
a good college and get a job you might hate and
support your own family someday.
If she were a 1950’s father, she’d have drunk heavy-bottomed
tumblers of a thick whiskey, and her stories would be told best
by the clinking ice cubes left behind.
Her love was restrained and curt, as if she were a
1950’s housewife who never left her home without a hat pinned on straight and
matching bag and shoes and when she kissed you, her lipstick
never rubbed off on you because her mouth barely grazed yours. Her kisses
could be counted on.
If she were a 1950’s housewife, she would never add salt to your food, for
fear of the hypertension you might someday suffer from. It would be bland
food, with kind intentions. She believed in living long.
Everyone loves in a unique way. Of all the people in the world,
she chose me
to love in hers.
Our oldest cat is named Pies, and she recently turned 17. She is still holding strong and is, I believe, no more crotchety than she was as a kitten, because she has always been a crotchety cat. Pies is a classic grouch, happier to scratch you than let you pet her, but she has her moments. She sleeps on me every night, and is the most loving animal one could ask for… in the wee hours of the morning, and only then.
Pies was a rescue kitty– she was found in a trash can with her mom. At the time I got her, when I was scarcely 18, I already had a kitten, named Maddles, who has since died of lymphoma. Maddles was queen of the house, and always kept Pies in check. When Maddles died at age 11, I thought Pies would suddenly spring out of her shell and develop a stronger/more loving personality, but that never happened. Pies remained as introverted and unfriendly as ever, and she remains as such to this day. She has no health ailments to the best of our knowledge, and though a little slower than in times past, is still fully mobile and spritely. I love her dearly because we have spent so long together, and because I’d like to think that those middle-of-the-night loves are indicative of her true, deeper self.
Initially named Ivy, which then evolved into Ivy-Pie, then I-Pie, then Pies, she has been Pies for close to ten years now, and it’s a name that always confounds strangers. There is no hidden meaning behind it; of all desserts, pies are far from my favorite. It’s a quirky name for a quirky cat, and it fits her well. So here’s to you, Pies, in all your wonderful, crotchety, beautiful glory. You are as well-traveled as a gal could be, having lived in nearly twenty homes on two coasts. You’ve seen me through relationships, roommates, and careers, and you’ve meowed begrudgingly by my side through all of it. Ace and I love you to pieces, Bill always wanted you to be his girlfriend, and Chessie and Mama LeeLee are doing a damn fine job of putting up with your persnickety ways. We hope you decide to stick around for another 17 years, because life just wouldn’t be the same without you.
P.S. We REALLY appreciate that you stopped peeing on everything a couple years ago. Keep up the good work, please!