golem

The last few weeks have been short, and too full of mundane activity; the dull kind of busyness that eats up my spare time, and leaves not much of interest to talk about.

Today I woke up feeling ragged and washed out; flea bitten and scabby. My eyes are red and bleary, raw from trying to rub them into some kind of focus.

At work, I force feed the unfortunately named Nyx. She came to us days ago, barely alive, exhausted by the efforts of taking breath, unable to lift her head, little more than a husk. Beyond repair, we were certain she would die.

Tonight she has summoned enough energy to hate me. She exhausts herself fighting against the tiny mouthfulls of food i slowly poke into her. She gags and retches, barely able to breathe around swallowing.

You have to eat.

Her eyes and sinuses are gummed shut with viral slime. I clean the crust off of her eyelashes and wait for her to catch her breath. She wheezes and focuses her eyes on me.

improvement.

Slowly, she eats enough to qualify as a meal.  She turns her head defiantly as i wipe away the thick ropes of food and drool that hang from her chin.  I clean her face and paws, clean her eyes again.

In my arms i hold a tiny cat shaped golem, made of twigs and paper.
exhausted.
impossibly thin.
and yet she persists.

Rubbing her chin, i think about my two Skinny Boys being adopted, ( a thing i've been working towards for months) and am shocked by the sudden sharp slap of sadness.  I  gasp with the pang of the realization of how much i will miss them.

Fat tears squeeze out of my eyes and plop rudely on the back of Nyx's skinny neck.  I blink them back but its too late.  I think about the growing list of  faces i miss and add my Skinny Boys to it.  I  think about all the things that keep me awake at night, and all the things i am afraid of.  My cheeks burn as more tears slide down them. 

Through my sobs a tiny sound reaches me.  Far, far away, at the distant tips of my fingers the faintest of rumbles begins to grow.

Nyx's eyes are closed.

Her entire body rattles with an obscenely loud purr.

i am forgiven.

persist.

*

on sunday morning i wake up early.
i prepare myself for the day ahead of me. its going to be strange.
i arrange a ride to the same small town i grew up in, escaped, all those years ago.
i need to get ready.
in the bathroom i look in the mirror. my normal self looks back. i don't look tired. my eyes are not red. i do not look distressed or distraught.
i look detached.
i frown at the mirror. Sometimes i worry that my "professional detachment" has metastasized too far into the margins of my personal life. this is definitely one of those times.

i shower. wash my hair. brush my teeth. curl my lashes. dress myself in black.

i'm excited to wear my new dress.
don't be dumb.

my legs are pasty and fish belly white, marked with too many bruises and scratches for normal wear and tear.

courtney love.

thank you, wrestling dogs and cats for a living.
i will need pantyhose, which i don't have.
i put on my shoes and my coat and so does Richard. we'll go for coffee and hosiery before we split up for the afternoon.

by the time we sit for coffee my feet are already sore and a bit red across the top where the leather edge has bitten into them. they won't rub so much once the pantyhose are on, but i'm glad to have something to focus on if things get weird.

"its just so weird", i tell Richard.

today i'm going to the wake of a girl nine years younger than me. we grew up together and our parent would go out and i'd babysit. we'd catch bullfrogs in the creek and snakes sunning on the stone walkway. we'd build forts in the woods and watch cartoons.
her name was "minnow" back then and she was the kind of kid you could tell straight away would grow up to be someone amazing.
and then she did grow up, and our families drifted and she got away from me, and now its been years and she's gone; died.
gotten away from all of us.

she was at university. told her mum she wasn't feeling well, went to bed...that was it.
she was twenty years old.

i'm the only one in our family who can make it to the wake.

"it IS going to be weird", Richard nods, "death is a pretty fucked up thing"

translucent

Amy said i look like a ghost today, after having been so sick.

tonight i feel like one.

a little bit lost
a little bit lonely