I don’t now.
Perhaps there’s something wrong with me.
Probably there’s something wrong with me.
When my favorite seven-year-old good-boy cat died I didn’t cry. I wrapped him in an old, soft baby blanket that used to belong to his favorite girl, duct taped him in an Amazon box, and handed him over to my husband to be buried.
His pregnant widow just gave birth to four more baby thems and one of those baby thems has not survived his travel from mamí’s belly to the earth plane. When I attempt to retrieve him, Mamí stands on her back legs, puts her hands on my arm and looks me in the eye to tell me, “Not yet, please,”
I sit here, not crying.
I sit here, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
I can’t remember the last time I cried.
That is an almost lie. If I put some effort into it, I remember. I just choose not to.
The almost, maybe truth is that I am always crying.
It just doesn’t come out of my eyes.
The almost truth is, all I am is crying.
The truth is, there is a limited number of times a person, me, can be broken. After that, there is this.
I’ve looked her over. She is a she. She is a gray and black, mackerel tabby with a white belly, four white paws, eighteen pink toe beans, and a white tip on the end of her tail.
I am a lady with a dead kitten. I want to name her Lil Pin. Or Lilliput.
She never felt stiff. She never felt cold.
She just went from breathing and wiggling to not breathing and not wiggling and now that I’ve taken her from Mamí (who tried very hard to convince me to give her more time), it turns out my eyes do leak sometimes.