A Story About a Poem

I’m not much of a poet. I’ve written a few. Mostly, I feel that any poem of mine is personal. I like to think they are understandable.

On the other hand, I’ve read many great poets, but often had no idea what they were trying to convey. I suppose the great poets let people decide for themselves what the heck they mean. 

Recently, I heard a lady read a poem at her father’s celebration of life, which he had requested to be read.  She named the poem and the writer, and said to the crowd, “I thought the poem was hard to understand, so I rewrote it.”

The crowd laughed. I wondered, how can someone rewrite something they don’t understand?

This brings me to a poem I recently wrote. I shared it with about a dozen people. Five or six said they liked it, but one, a writer and good poet herself, said she thought it was cruel the way I treated my wife for the last seven years.

Here’s the poem. See what you think.

ON REGRET

A simple request

Easily done.

Yet.

Do you know how much I love

Cats? She said.

Do you know how tired I am of

Caring for them? I said.

Forty-three years.

Seven cats.

This new house is

Not a home

Without a cat.

We are old

We’ll outlive the cat.

Is that fair?

True. Her brain had fog.

Her Heart a clog.

Yet.

She sat.

Afghan on lap.

Wine glass in hand.

Looked at me.

Smiled. And said,

Almost perfect.

No cat.

Yet.

Seven years of regret.

Sometimes she visits

And asks

Where's my Cat?

Does it need an explanation? Self-appointed experts say good writing should always try to show the reader what the story is about, not tell them. I have rarely been accused of good writing, so let me tell you, just in case, I couldn’t show you.

We had sold our large house and were in the process of downsizing. A new, smaller house was being built for us. Our last cat had died. We decided we would not get another while the new house was under construction. We left unresolved when or if we would get a new one.

My wife made a simple request. I remember the conversation on Copper Canyon Road as we drove to inspect the new home. Yes, I knew she loved cats.

She loved ‘em, but I took care of them: three Siamese, two tabbies, one tortie, and a crazy white cat. I bought the food, fed them, cleaned the litter box, and took them to the vet when needed.

When cats puke. (A good title for a horror movie) We would argue as to whose turn it was—she could wait me out. I was the one who cared for them at the end of their life. We never had kids, so losing the cats broke my heart seven times as it did hers.

Yes, I loved the cats too. But we were getting old. I felt I had done my part.

She understood my feelings, and I hers. A new cat might outlive us. But her life was better with a cat.

Yes, she had some dementia, a brain fog.

Etched in my mind is her sitting in her recliner with an afghan and a glass of wine, looking at me as saying, “Almost perfect.”

Early on the morning of November 1, 2018, she died from a heart attack, a heart clog.

I often feel her visiting, I feel her eyes, I hear her words. "Where's my cat?"

Seven years of regret, and counting...