“Dear March, come in! How glad I am!”-- Emily Dickinson

March 1 2008 9:29 am

Thursday I woke up to a house rattling empty, feeling empty--- the hallway had been cleared of boxes and I felt the absence of Gobi--- no meowing to wake me up, no wails of complaint for food and water.

Las night I slept--- with aches and feverish--- feeling my left tonsil as hard as a rock.

Wednesday afternoon I felt myself become so tired and pale as I looked for Gobi and not hearing her--- freezing--- as I opened the door and saw Gnomie cradling her in her shirt. Gnomie was rocking with sobs and tears.

“Is she still alive?” I asked, knowing that she was dead.

How could she not be dead falling off twelve floors?

There was no blood, no bones protruding.

She looked asleep, soft.

Gobi’s eyes were half-open. She looked so soft… She looked like she was sleeping, just sleeping, when she’s dead. She still felt so soft as we took turns cradling her--- when she’s dead.

I looked at her and waited for her to “mew” or feel her chest rise

---like the night before

she jumped from the top of the TV onto the sofa and laid down on my lap for a nap. I could not move for about 30-45 minutes,

she slept with me then on me on my bed once more, as usual, woke me up with her meow of hunger,

her weight a comforting presence on me,

keeping the nightmares away.

She’s on top of the TV when I’m watching TV. She returns with me to my room when I write, stays on top of the computer, sometimes naps on the mouse…I did not take her with me back to my room after I ate lunch. I left her on top of the TV--- to write. I thought that she could take care of herself and be safe from the other two cats,

this time…

Cats lied:

They have no nine lives.

In this life, they too only have one.

Then I had finally allowed myself to cry--- seeing how Gnomie cried, how Joey finally cried…He had allowed himself to cry for Jay when Gobi died. I had allowed myself to cry a little, then stopped, afraid that I would never stop crying.

I feel so tired, my heart is so tired. I feel so tired, just wanting to sleep and be quiet. I just want to be quiet and heal--- because the cats lied.

Cats don’t have nine lives and they are buried like everyone else in soil, piled over by rocks--- stepped on. Dead, they don’t feel anything anymore.

Sometimes when I pause I begin to think of how Gobi looked as she was falling. Was she clawing air for hold? Did she know that she was going to die? Did she feel the pain of the fall’s end?

There were twelve floors

if she had nine lives,

she had one life for each floor

and three floors had killed her.

She stopped.

It seemed that I stopped when the two died on the final week of February. What a bloody love
month… Yet I keep moving, washing the dishes, cooking, cleaning the comfort room tile per tile, writing what I can--- I cannot pause.

It’s now March…March…March…I had felt my hair grow longer: it covers my eyes, not wanting anyone to see the grief in my eyes. I march to clean. I march to write. I march to dance. I march to live. Marching--- I feel like I’m just trudging along, my hair covering my eyes.