Cat in the garden

A friend once told me while we sat above an old grave, “soon my bones will be indistinguishable from the ones underneath us.” And we looked below and saw with X-ray vision the bones buried there. He was afraid. I was confused. So I returned home and talked with my mother about death. But she did not understand me, for she does not think I understand. How can this boy understand death? As a child her own mother crawled into her bed at night, drunk and with a gun. Her sister fought death with heroin, and heroin with fentanyl. How can this boy understand death? I watch the news; climate protesters attack priceless works of art. People yell and scream, “how could they try to kill something so precious!” The protesters smile. A single tree, which has stood for five hundred years, its flesh unlike any other, is swiftly cut. A Great Grey Owl watches from its tower. Like The Last Avatar, he ponders the destruction of his race. “Forgive them, they know not what they do,” says the owl, quoting Christ, but we know and turn away. “Bless you,” I say to a stranger who tells me she’s not religious. She smiles at me then, as if to say, do you understand how terrible religion is? She works in a coffee shop and calls herself a Buddhist. I, the gay Catholic, nod politely, as if to say, no, I could never understand the problems of organized religion. My friend tells me that as a child sometimes the room would slant. People stare at him like dolls, and he watches his body from above. He has a dissociative disorder from living with his alcoholic father for so many years. I watch another friend as he throws his little brother to the floor. “It's fine,” he says, knowing that his own brother threw him to the floor. His family keeps him close. My heart breaks as I watch him perpetuate violence. “No mama, I don’t understand death,” I say, and go to my room and cry. My father calls me looking for attention, for validation. “Who’s the best dad?” he asks. His voice crinkles and I change the subject. Now, alone but not alone in my room, my cat King Arthur watches me from the floor with needy eyes. I feed him his dry kibble, and admire his sleek tail, which later I will find curled around my eyes. He blinds me, and later that morning, claws me as I try to lift myself from bed. Stay with me and rest he seems to say, curled up in a tight ball. As a child I would snuggle with him, and now I snuggle still. He understands; the first deaths always happen to the children. I pray for him, for his little life that has brought me so much wonder and joy. Years later, my friends come over and we marvel at his aging shape in the garden. When he dies, it will be such a terrible day, but now is not the time to mourn.