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2002-2017. She will be so missed. -
Dear ghost,
The gas man came today, and filled the tank for the fireplace. I didn’t request that he do this — had forgotten the task entirely — but it seems you were responsible.
The bill left behind by the gas company says it’s September. I hadn’t noticed the time passing, but I guess that explains why the nights have grown cooler. Had I realized the season, I probably would’ve wanted a fire to take the chill off. Instead, I just wrapped the wool tartan, the one you bought for me in Scotland during our honeymoon, around my shoulders and shivered.
Now that the tank is full, I suppose I could turn on the fireplace. Truth be told, the very thought of doing so, of flicking that switch, hearing the gassy whoosh and watching the blue flames erupt into a fiery dance makes me even sadder.
I always wanted a fireplace, dreamed of it for so many years. And finally, after much scrimping and saving, we were able to afford a house that had one. How many nights did we sit by the fire, draining the tank of all its fuel? How many days did we cuddle on the couch underneath the red blanket and watch the snow fall?
What was once a dream, and then a reality, has now become just one more reminder that you are gone. Ghosts don’t need a fire to see, or a fire to read by, or a fire to snuggle close to the one you love.
I’m loathe to admit it, but sometimes, it feels like I’m a ghost, too. No doubt you’d hate that I feel this way, but I can’t help it. Ever since you left, I’ve been haunting these rooms. I forget to eat. When I get out of bed, I find half-filled cups scattered on tables, the once-white insides dyed a dreary brown from forgotten tea. Copernicus would probably starve if it wasn’t for the automatic feeder, which I probably should fill again. I took a bath yesterday; I was so lost in thought remembering that time we foolishly left the trail in the woods that the water cooled and shriveled the skin on my fingers before I even noticed. Oh look, my slippers, have a hole. Where did that come from?
As I placed the gas company notice in the mail basket, I saw a rather large pile of unopened mail there. The letters and catalogs and magazines just pile up under the slot until I trip over the paper mound, but I’m always too tired to do more than toss them into the basket on the desk. Soon I will need to buy a bigger basket.
Anyway, I don’t mean to complain. This is my life now. So thank you for ordering the gas in advance, for taking care of me when I no longer want to bother. Even in death, you are so thoughtful.
Love,
Me–Bit of fiction inspired by this article in The New York Times
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RIP Sweet Sera
Seraphina Walker-Weir, a sweet little cat who was adored by everyone who met her, died on August 25 of breast cancer. She was about 8 years old.
Born in 2008, Sera’s childhood was quite difficult. Her owner was a hoarder, a woman who collected felines yet failed to provide family planning, medical care or cleaning services. Around the time of her first birthday, authorities raided the house and rescued Sera, along with her 60 sisters, brothers and cousins. The cats were transported to the Monadnock Humane Society in Swanzey, N.H., and treated for various illnesses. The entire lot was spayed and neutered, brought up to date on their immunizations and put up for adoption.
Due to the sudden arrival of so many cats, the humane society contacted the media for assistance. When Marcus and I read the newspaper article about the cats’ ordeal, we immediately drove to the shelter and offered our help. A few hours later, we adopted two of the hoarder’s cats: a fluffy black-haired beauty who was originally named Elizabeth Taylor but we renamed Mystery, and a tiny tuxedo cat named Jane Fonda who we christened Seraphina.
Mystery died in 2011.
Sera had a soft, brownish-black coat with white hair on her chest, tummy and feet. Whenever she wanted attention, she would stand on her hind legs, place her front paws/claws on your thigh and give you a look that begged for a lift to the lap. No one could resist this request. She adored being pet on the head, stroked under the chin, caressed across the back and rubbed on her belly. Unlike the rest of our cats, she even allowed us to tickle the pink jellybean toes on her paws. Although everyone marveled at her beauty, it was Sera’s affectionate nature that prompted friends and family to threaten to catnap her when we weren’t looking.
Sera’s disposition was generally very gentle and easy going; however, her tough upbringing and diminutive size gave her the spirit of a Mafia don (“Listen Cujo, I got some pretty wicked claws under these mitts, do not, I beg of you do not make me bring out these bad boys! It gets ugly!”). She would allow other cats to gain access to our laps, even if she was already settled there, but if they crossed the line in any way, Sera wouldn’t hesitate to bitchslap them back into place. She also had an affinity for all things shiny and dangly so wearing long earrings or necklaces was not usually advisable.
This smart and sassy cat became my familiar and was rarely far from my side. If I sat on the couch to watch TV or read, she would inevitably settle into my lap. When I occupied the reclining chair and worked on my laptop, she’d wedge herself next to it so she’d be available for snuggles. And if I was sitting at my desk, she’d stop by several times a night to lie on my chest or recline in my lap while I did my best to love her and type at the same time. Every encounter was accompanied by the song of her purr, which was loud and true. During the moments when she wasn’t cuddling with us, Sera was usually sleeping on her brother Duncan’s giant bed, atop my desk chair, in the cat suitcase or inside a cat condo.
Her health, unfortunately, was not great. Living in filth as a kitten seemed to stunt her growth so she never weighed more than 6 pounds. She suffered from digestive issues that required special foods, mats and cleaning supplies (particularly air freshener) to manage. Yet that didn’t stop Sera from always begging for bits of the scrambled egg or poached fish that appeared on our plates. She was so attuned to my cooking habits that she could tell the difference between the opening of a can of tomatoes and the opening of a tuna can. She’d only show up for the latter.
Cats who are not fixed before their first heat have a much higher risk of developing a vicious strain of breast cancer. When the vet diagnosed her with this deadly condition last November, she gave Sera less than a year to live. Since surgery would have been ineffective and needlessly painful, we vowed to care for her as best we could and make that final year a good one.
Over time, the tumors grew out of Sera’s chest and bled. Throughout the winter and spring, her appetite rarely wavered, in fact it increased as the cancer stole all of the nutrients her meals offered. When the tumors made lying on her stomach uncomfortable, she would lie on her side or back and purr. Once the cancer invaded her lungs and affected her breathing, we knew the time had come to say farewell.
The vet who had cared for Sera since the cancer diagnosis kindly helped to put her out of her misery. After the first shot was administered, I picked up Sera’s small, frail body and held her in my arms. M petted her head comfortingly until the light faded from her eyes.
She was our youngest, and she will be so missed.
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“The Widow’s Lament in Springtime” by William Carlos Williams
Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years
I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches
and color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy
formerly, today I notice them
and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the distance, he saw
trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.–Photo by Roger Whiteway
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Good night, sweet Prince.
I didn’t sleep well today. I tried. I knew the temperatures were going to rise near 80 degrees and that slumber would be more difficult. I even went to bed three hours early. Alas, my time in Morpheus’ realm was fitful at best and broken by strange dreams. Around 3:30 p.m., I gave up the idea of slumber and read until M came home. He crawled into bed and chatted with me for a few moments before breaking the terrible news.
Prince has died.
I sat up and flatly denied the claim. He told me again and I couldn’t fucking believe it. How could that be possible? Prince can’t die. He was supposed to be immortal. And certainly not at 57. It just didn’t make any sense at all. I got out of bed, dressed, fed the cats and brewed a cup of tea. Fortified by Black Pearl, I turned on my computer and starting reading obituaries and tributes.
Bloody fucking hell. It was true. Prince, one of my favorite all-time artists, was gone.
With a self-made soundtrack of Prince tunes playing loudly in my ears, I cried for an hour. Out of all the musicians in the world, this was the one I truly loved.
As a young girl, Prince music awakened my sexual side, and taught me I shouldn’t be ashamed for wanting physical affection. In my pre-teens, Prince inspired me to stand up to my father, who was more obsessed with my loving a musician of another race than recognizing his talent. As an adult, I saw Prince in concert probably a dozen times, half of which I was accompanied by my best friend Amy. Dressed in skimpy black lace, we would sing and dance for the entire show and rave about all his kick ass moves on the way home.
Of course we loved the hits: “Let’s Go Crazy,” “Purple Rain,” “When Doves Cry,” “Little Red Corvette,” “Raspberry Beret,” “I Would Die 4 U,” “You’ve Got the Look,” “Kiss.” Yet many of my absolute favorites rarely received any airtime, like “Joy in Repetition,” “Strange Relationship,” “Starfish and Coffee,” “Arms of Orion,” “Take Me With U,” “I Wonder U” and “Venus de Milo.” And then there were his sexy anthems, the ones I’d play during the three nights of the full moon: “Come,” “Cream,” “It,” “Darling Nikki,” “Gett Off,” “Erotic City,” “Head,” “I Wanna Be Your Lover,” “I Wanna Melt With U,” “Sexy M.F.,” “Tick, Tick, Bang.”
Ames and I planned to ring in the year 2000 by spending New Year’s Eve in Times Square dancing to “1999.” Sadly, she didn’t live that long. Yet Prince’s music kept her memory alive.
As he got older, Prince became more religious and I became an atheist. He did far less grinding on his guitar and piano and far more preaching about his beliefs as a Jehovah’s Witness. He was even known to proselytize door-to-door with former Sly and the Family Stone bassist Larry Graham. While I still admired his immense talent and appreciated the quirkiness of his persona, I just couldn’t take the preaching. At the final Prince concert I attended, he performed a cover of Joan Osborne’s “One of Us” and ordered the audience to pray. That’s when I knew we were definitely on separate paths.
I broadened my musical interests and experimented with new artists, yet my adoration for the Purple One never wavered. When he appeared on TV, I watched. When new music was released, I checked it out. When the Joffrey Ballet created an entire performance based on his songs, I was the first person to buy tickets. I even saw Prince play the rainy halftime show for Super Bowl XLI; it’s still the only halftime performance I’ve seen live. Over the years, he remained a consummate showman.
I loved his oddness, his passion, his prolific creativity, his crazy fashion sense and the way he’d make pancakes for friends and fans at 3 a.m. I loved the fact that he had his own compound, one that was completely wired for sound so he could record any note or lyric that popped into his head.
Earlier this week, I asked my friends what one musician or singer they would hire to perform at their birthday party. I would have chosen Prince, but honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever be cool enough for him to show, even hypothetically. We often throw around words like “icon” and “legend,” but these descriptions actually fit him.
As I scrolled though my Facebook feed today, the sadness was palpable in every posted picture, video and memory. Many quoted the opening lines of “Let’s Go Crazy”:
Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here today,
To get through this thing called life…
Electric word, life
It means forever
And that’s a mighty long time.
But I’m here to tell you,
There’s something else:
The after world.But the words that kept playing in my head came from his song “Sometimes It Snows in April”:
Sometimes it snows in April
Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad
Sometimes I wish that life was never ending,
But all good things, they say, never last
