Cat in the Sill

The cat in the sill looks at me

with disdain. I notice it only because

its stare is piercing and because I love her.

I love her for her original way of

swishing her tail in my face as she

leaves me still in the middle of stroking

her. She knows when to call it enough.

She had a sister once. I did too. The

cat sister was known for drinking

drips from the faucet. The human

sister is known for what she omits

from conversations, whole gaps in the

story. It is not that way with cats.

They don’t even begin the conversation

at all. Simply a gaze will do.

So it should maybe be with people.

They talk too much, do they not?

I know my incessant prattle has scattered

you already. I know I think too much

about cats and too little about what

really matters. But my cats do not

mind me for overlooking the obvious.

They do not need me either to stop talking

or to start. They disdain me either way.

I could stop here, but I would not have

gotten to my main point. My main

point is this: my cat closes its eyes

at just the point where the river crests

and the ivy has overgrown the kitchen.

She simply blocks it all out. Let the

sleeping cat lie, it tells me. And I do.

I would not bother it with something

so minimal. I would simply let it go.

And I do. Really, I do.

Copyright 2008 Maia Twedt