The Way of Cats

He dragged himself under the porch

with the dirt and the dust and the spiders,

this tiny space, just as I’m doing now to pull him out.

I didn’t know he was there until,

looking for him, calling his name,

though he never answers, I heard that soft

meow he’s been making of late, like saying goodbye.

For cats know much more than people, handle it

it better than us, when it’s time to go, to cross

that rainbow bridge to an afterlife, whatever comes

next in the animal world, and not wanting

to trouble us, cats will crawl away into the dark

to be alone, to make their own peace

with the lives they’ve lived, and then leave

just as they arrived, taking us into their lives

and, in time, leaving us behind, filling the time in between

with balls of yarn and catnip mice, warm window seats

and low purrs rumbling up from deep inside,

head butts to show their love, finding us worthy.

Now I know …

So I covered him there under the porch with that towel

he claimed as his, the one that smelled of us, of him and me,

and lay down beside him in the dirt and the dust

among the spiders and detritus of the darkness,

softly petting his fur and quietly listening,

nothing more, letting the tears fall silently,

run freely down my cheeks, sobbing deeply,

until his purring faded and rumbled to a stop,

letting him go in the way of cats crossing over,

grieving in the way of men, alone in this new darkness

– perhaps, we aren’t so different after all, he and I,

preferring solitude when the words would fail us.