Something breaks beneath my skin

Henry David Thoreau once wrote that “the poem of the world is uninterrupted.”  How true that is.  And yet, like every other bit of poetry, the poem of the world has its endings, with each line and each stanza braking for the next, each a whole world of beginnings and endings, for the poem of the world overflows with beginnings and endings, each sentence and each stanza ripe with untold starts and stops.  And while the beginnings cannot exist without their endings, and while the poem itself cannot exist or move forward without both, often it is the endings that give us pause, that catch our breath, that force us to face what we’ve just read, what we’ve just experienced.  Still, the poem of the world is uninterrupted no matter how much it feels otherwise when we reach one of those endings…

He lay quietly, wrapped in my shirt, cradled gently in my arms as a father would hold a child.  Staying my own trembles required more effort than I imagined existed in all the world, yet I prevailed.  No amount of weakness borne of anguish could overcome my desire to see him tended.  I would not fail him.

Whispers of my love danced from my lips until they fell upon his ears in quiet so profound it beckoned the universe to hush so it might hear me.  My hands moved nimbly over his fur in strokes of passion deep and heartfelt.  Beneath my soft caress his body trembled slightly, weakly, a strain against my embrace in defiance of what was to come.  I knew no creature could survive what he faced, no body could withstand it.  I knew he was dying.

I leaned my face close to his in that way I often did, and I gently spoke to him, halting abruptly only to listen as he feebly whimpered.  His weakening breath softly brushed my face.  It was like a kiss to me, and it engendered a tear that fell just beyond his neck and landed on the tattered cloth of a shirt I would never wear again.  Briefly, my eyes fixated on the darkness it created there, a small and insignificant spot of salt water, and I stared at it absently.

His trembles became weaker still and I shifted my focus back to his small face.  Eyes bright as stars on a moonless night stared back at me, a loving gaze that washed over my face and seemed to push the air out of the room.  I wanted to bathe in it, to wash my whole body in that scrutiny.  And yet I knew I would never see it outside the harshly lit room in which we stood.  Too much had happened; too many pains had befallen such a small soul.

Racked by guiltless longing for what could never be, I leaned ever closer to his face and kissed him gently through my own growing sobs.  He needn’t worry for me, needn’t add my own trepidation to his own, so I struggled against the lamentations welling up within my essence and denied them voice.  It had to be his time, his moment, his wisp of the cosmos defined in a sterile room tucked away in cheap offers of peace.  I would not fail him.

So I snuggled him closely and let his waning pants lick my cheeks, my nose, my lips in vast smallness only he could define.  Their flavor slipped from me, grew increasingly distant.  I wanted to take within my own flesh all the suffering and pain he felt.

Was there no offering I could make by which to trade places with him?  Was there no hope of granting his flesh a part of the life I still carried?

As he slipped away, I inhaled his final essence, the last breathing from a suddenly lifeless body, and into me I took it with force and selfishness.  I would hold my breath for the rest of my life if it meant I could keep that part of him with me always.

Finally streams of sorrow marched down my cheeks and fell around his halo-lit countenance.  Letting him go was not an option.  I would rend my heart upon the same shirt in which he was wrapped, cast it upon the floor holding up my feet, and all if it meant just one more moment, one more cry, one more touch from a life taken too soon.

So cries this love.  So weeps this season of hollow.

A close-up of Kazon, one of my cats, backlit by sunlight (2009_02_28_011609)

Kazon
September 1998 – July 2011

A morning kiss, a discreet touch of his nose
landing somewhere on the middle of my face.
Because his long whiskers tickled,
I began every day laughing.
— Janet F. Faure

10 thoughts on “Something breaks beneath my skin”

  1. I have a bolus of grief for my Larry cat lodged somewhere in my throat that I’ve never quite been able to evict. We shared an ice cream cone on her last day. My condolences.

  2. Jason, you have my deepest sympathy. We had an elderly cat, Attila (a female), who had surgery to remove her thyroid gland in an attempt to improve her condition near the end of her life, but the whole scenario backfired and her condition deteriorated quickly. In the end, she went into spasms that nothing could control. My wife sat with her cradled in her arms and rocked the cat for the last 45 minutes of her life, trying to give her some comfort. I don’t know if Attila appreciated it or not, but the end was not good or gentle. Our vet, who we trusted completely (and still do), never forgave himself for his miscalculation.

  3. I’m so sorry On. This hits too close to home. We can’t live without our critter’s furry antics tripping through our lives but letting go is so painful. We share your pain.

  4. Jason, I’m sorry not to have written sooner. It took me a few days to read this; too many memories. I’m so sorry for your loss.

  5. I’m sure the days have been grey even in the blinding sun for the last few weeks. He was a beauty and I loved checking out his page to see him young and see him sweet. My deepest sympathies sent to you….

  6. Jason, I’m so sorry that you’ve lost a good friend. I’m there with you: our beloved dog died yesterday, a victim of a pancreatic mass that was spreading to his liver. Please know that I’m thinking of you.

  7. Oh, Lordy. I’m so sorry. Couldn’t even read the whole thing, and your kitty looks much like the kitty I’ve had since it’s 3rd week (found on road at night by bus driver–this TINY black kitten).

    What a lovely poem, at the end.

    I’m so sorry.

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