The four a.m. yowling
used to infuriate us.
The ceaseless meows
demanding every millisecond of our time.
You had no rhyme or reason to you.
One moment, you were sunshine,
warmly vibrating in a lap.
In an instant, you were a blizzard,
hissing at the human… (as if you didn’t crawl onto said lap of your own accord.)
You brought pure pandemonium.
There were days we considered what it would be like after.
No more dastardly discoveries
of tepid, ammonia-scented liquids
or piles of chunky, chalky vomit
scattered across the house.
No more summoning us
to the kitchen, couch, or bed.
No more judgmental glares—
ungrateful and indignant,
from a feline too fat to function without us.
But now time has passed the point of
those considerations.
There’s no more liquid, vomit, being summoned, or being judged.
Instead,
We play the piano and sing
waiting for you to appear.
We forget to stop watching our shows
wondering where our scheduling supervisor has gone.
We miss the caviling expressions
critiquing us as we do the most mundane chores.
We think about how we were—before the after,
under your tyrannical reign.
We think about all the memories
that coalesce around your resonant, emphatic meows
that still reverberate through our house.
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist Ernest Williamson III, PhD
