The Prodigal Kitty

The cat wanders past looking quite pleased with herself. After a two-day absence she has returned. The prodigal kitty, fattened on songbirds and squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits. She lumbers, belly  hanging low, mewing to herself a lullaby. I look out the screen door before locking it and spy the rodent head she left, a gift, no doubt, and peace offering after her wild outdoor adventures.

I know we shouldn’t let her out. Our village has an ordinance forbidding cats from roaming. But she was wild when she chose us and we simply cannot convince her to remain indoors. She darts between my legs when I carry laundry out to hang it on the line. She climbs the screen and yowls, demanding to be set free. She  has a life, after all. Social engagements to keep. Lovers to meet. Rodent populations to control.

Soon she will mother her third litter of kittens. I promise myself I will take her to the vet to have her ‘fixed’. But I’ve broken that promise twice before. I love the blind eyed babies she bears. Their early wobbling steps. Their fierce need to nurse. The way they quickly fluff out. Their endless curiosity and antics. They make the world a bit less lonely. They bring me joy. They are my family too.

(Memories of Misty, one of our family cats from my childhood.)

Laundry

 I remember playing amid the bed sheets hanging from Mom’s clothesline at seven years old, my sister briefly silhouetted by the morning sun, disappearing before I could tag her. Only the ghost of a giggle remained to prove she’d been there.                            

When I was 16, my mother worked on an inpatient psychiatric unit, a high school equivalency degree enough to quality her to monitor the residents. One day, when a colleague was on lunch break and late to return, my mom was left defenseless in the face and fists of a resident who tried to kill her. With blackened eyes, bruised throat and broken ribs she watched me hang our laundry under a dazzling sky,  me so desperate to help, so thankful that intervention came in time and she was returned to us intact, mostly. It was a gift to have her continued guidance as I moved into adulthood.

I put up a small  umbrella clothesline outside our duplex door in 1988 and hung my children’s clothes to dry throughout the summer when they were one and two-years old. Onesies, wee socks, sleepers, leggings, t-shirts and sweet teddy bear crib sheets cavorted in the breeze amidst my husband’s work shirts. These were meditative moments while toddlers napped, and the scent of line-dried sheets was a comforting welcome when it was time to sleep.

We bought our first house in 1991 and erected a sturdy clothesline behind our garage. It was the site of energy saving efficiency as well as fantasy borne of blankets slung over the lines to create forts for my little ones. We’d play beneath the woolly shade imagining we were dragons or pirates or royalty in a castle.

When we moved to our current home in 2014, we reverted to the umbrella style clothesline to make the most of a smaller back yard. One day when I was hanging shirts on the line, my little neighbor girl asked why I was putting my clothes on a tree. It saddened me to realize that she would never know the joy of hiding among the sheets or pretending beneath a blanket lovingly positioned by a parent. I explained that I was drying my clothes, that I loved the way they smelled when I brought them in, that I was saving energy by letting the sun and the breeze do the work that would otherwise fall to the dryer in the basement, that I enjoyed the excuse to spend a little more time outside. She simply nodded and trotted off to play with her brother.

February of 2024 was a strange month in Wisconsin, warm enough for me to hang laundry on the line above snow-free grass. Dormant plants were tricked by the spring-like weather and some began to sprout. I carried my laden clothes basket to the back yard, basking in the 50-degree temperatures and the brilliant sun. I thought of all the times my mom had hung the laundry to dry, and her mom, and her mom’s mom. My mom was prevalent in my thoughts that day… She was at her home dying of the cancer that had spread throughout her body and I was at my home for only a few hours… my sisters and I were caring for her around the clock and it was my turn for a brief respite. I thought of her welcoming smile and sparkling eyes as I retrieved each item from the basket and fixed it with wooden clothespins to the web shaped lines. My gratitude for all she taught me welled and overflowed as tears.

She left us a few days later and I’m thankful she’s no longer suffering. I imagine her watching me hang laundry from wherever she is, smiling.

Mom

 Leaving Antigo, I want

to call you. To tell you

that the church you grew up in

has a new gathering space now.

But the altar and pews

haven't changed. 

I remember being there when

Grandpa married after Grandma died.

I remember a succession of funerals.

I know you held that place

close to your heart.

It is a symbol of your childhood, 

your innocence,

your formation.

I ache to hold your hand and

miss you with every cell,

every thought, every breath.

You were there when I took my

first breath.

I was there when you took

your last.

I will miss you until

we are together again.

Black Crow Strut

 

Black crow

Watch your strut

Bob your head

Shake your butt

 

Don’t think too hard

Just go with the flow

When it’s right

The flow will know

 

Black crow

Bob your head

And you will see

You’re well fed

Squirrel and rabbit

Deer and cat

You duck and jive

Lovin’ where you’re at

 

Black crow

Watch the street

Knowing fast cars bring

More meat

 

Watch your strut

Bob your head

Shuffle those feet

Dine on the dead

Painted in a Corner

“Janie. Come in here. Right away.”

Recrimination echoed in the ensuing silence. Janie tucked her hair behind her ears, straightened her shirt, took a deep breath, walked slowly down the hall and into the sunlit corner room where a matronly lady stood reviewing the wreckage of Janie’s work.

“You do know that you’ve painted yourself into a corner this time. You’re up the creek without a paddle, on the roof without a ladder, in the mine without a parakeet. In short, you, my friend, are in trouble.”

Tears came to Janie’s eyes.

“I’m, I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

“Well, we’re kind of past the point of sorry now.”

Stern icy blue eyes under shaggy grey eyebrows looked down at Janie who was now more aware of her slight stature than she’d ever been.

“What do you want me to do,” she asked.

Janie held her hands in front of her, pleading. She also held her breath.

“Janie, if this had been the first time we could overlook it. But you’ve done this before. Several times.”

“But I’ll do better. I promise!”

The craggy face in which the eyes resided moved closer.

“OK. I believe you. So here’s what what’s going to happen. You’re going to clean up the mess you made, and you’ll do it without complaint.”

“I understand,” Janie said. She brushed her hands together, ready to get down to business.

“And Janie…”

“Yes?”

“Next time you want to make cookies, check with me first. We can have a grandma and Janie baking lesson.

Janie smiled and nodded as she swept flour, chocolate chips and eggshells, her culinary palette, from the floor.

imprints

 

ghosts of last fall’s leaves

tattoo the sidewalk

in coffee-colored points and dips

their brilliant colors faded and edges blurred

just a memory of what was

 

the maple may not recognize her shed

marked on the ridged concrete below shadowed branches

 

I pray for the strength to release

what I no longer need

as I weather the seasons

In the Spirit

 

The mind manacle tightened

‘till ideas spurted.

No sagacity squandered

as the mind wandered and wended

exploring expanded exigencies.

A chorus of characters kick-lining

to culmination backed by

an orchestra of she and his

saying and playing.

No right or wrong

just is and as

in the absinth moment.