If he knew how many kittens I have called mine?
He plants his warm toe beans on my hand before he falls asleep as if I’ve never loved another cat.
He stares at me as if I’m pretty.
I am not.
He purrs in his sleep on my belly as if I am the only home he’s ever known or will ever know. He thinks he will live forever and I have always been here.
He doesn’t know how short his life will be compared to mine.
If he does, he doesn’t mind.
In the basement, his mother cries. Looking for his litter-mates who have gone on to new homes.
He has forgotten her.
He doesn’t hear her.
He no longer looks for her.
She cries as if the loss of her babies is the end of her life.
He snores as if he was born from air without a mother and not a cat but a part of a human.
A part of me.
He is not.
There are no more parts of me. I cried for the loss of my kittens until I was empty. I cannot love him like she loves him.
Because he does not love her like she loves him, there are no more parts of his mother. She howls herself out into the house where she cannot find her babies.
What I know and sometimes forget is there will be many moments of remembering. They feel like death. What she remembers right now is there should be four babies who come when she calls.
Or were there three?
I remember my two.
And then there were none.
Eventually, the thing that is missing will feel like an empty space in the middle of things.
It will become unidentifiable.
It will become a thing.
Eventually, she and I will just be things. Hollow vessels, empty of howls, near one contented kitten.
One contented, stupid kitten.
Barefoot Iowa 