“I wept not, so to stone within I grew.”
As midnight looms, the pusses are already lost in their Tuesday night dream of just another day, and I ponder this fourth day reprieve for a week’s end not yet over. We’ve stretched the gamut from dreaded grief to grievous dread and have, frankly, grown quite weary. Ah, the juice of a holiday awaits and I am parched for the sip.
The last few days have not been easy, not that many ever are. Five days have passed since Dr Rose gave me the news, with a schedule of “issues” to ready myself for my pending heart transplant. Jon’s preparation is equally as daunting, just different. Emoting doesn’t always come easy for that long and silver-haired bard of Marklewood. I embrace him, talk of the better days, and mindfully keep him from spiraling for too long. And I talk away the tears. (Yes, You’ve got to pay your dues, if you want to sing the blues.”
Jon has joined the pusses under the carefully layered pile of odd bed linens: cheetah-pattern fleece sheets, crisp white matelasse coverlet, and russet silk duvet. He will soon drift off and the upstairs will once again be still. My mask can at last be retired, and I can softly weep, as to not wake the gasping sorrow that took all day to quell.
I do that a lot on these spring days: keep my feelings under lock so that I can be the cheerful cruise director. I eagerly work at applying that shield of optimism, so successfully that I often fool even myself that “all is well” in this never-ending tragedy.
So, as I look ahead to my procedural “event,” I will breathe an honest air and release that waiting cry. My soul will once again attest to my humanity and weakness, and I will cry … for Jon, his friend, and the pusses who trust that I indeed know best.
When tomorrow’s dawn finally awakens my body, I shall once again re-face my spirit. I shall make the day happy, rejoicing that the world around us has come to a stop. Henry and I will judiciously maneuver the creaky stairs to fetch Jon’s juice and breakfast, and Jon’s sun will rise.
Henry is the ever proper companion puss for he remembers all of my tears. Perhaps, he wears his own mask of sorts. Or maybe he simply craves a treat.
(Image: “Man With Magnolias” by Steven Kenny, 2013.)