Saturday, November 29, 2014
In the summer garden I have been toting that bag around, deadheading, snipping, weeding. Then it gets dragged down to the compost bins. Where today, inbetween editing photos and writing a story, I must chop some large branchy bits into smaller, digestible pieces.
The Harlem terrace, a world reversed, seems impossible. I am not sure what it will mean when I am back. Catless. He followed me from pot to pot hoping for a stray piece of grass, germinated from fallen bird seed. And Estorbo's wheat grass had only just been sown when I left. I even left a pot to germinate inside for him. Who knew he would be gone, when I returned?
I guess there is a cut off time for when one must stop writing about the loss of a cat. And just howl in bathrooms. On random floors. Behind closed doors. Yell at the air that you want him undead.
Death is so unacceptable.