J.R. Solonche

Burying the Cat, Lucy

It was August and hot. The shovel
was a heavy spoon feeding the earth
a meal it did not ask for. I picked
a spot under the old hydrangea.
The shade is thick here in this end
of the garden. My cat was wrapped
in a bath towel that used to be blue,
looking more like a bundle of laundry
than a hunter of shadows. I expected
the dirt to feel like a door closing,
but it felt more like tucking a child
into a bed that is far too large.
I stood, leaning on the wooden
handle, and I listened to a silence
louder than any cry I ever heard
her make in all our twenty years
together. I stood there a long time.
I stood until twenty years passed.