FADING
She has become an image fading toward History
writing itself for us. We need to do nothing, can do nothing,
except be present in our own lives, in the lives
of those who love us,
and let it happen.
So she's quit eating except enough, perhaps,
to stay alive. Mostly now she is
content to lay still, to rest beside me,
or find a quiet place on the floor
by the cable modem, where it's warm;
and, if cats can dream, to dream
of what but of this warmth perpetual?
September 9th, if she gets there,
she'll have been with me nine years,
progressed from adult to geriatrix.
She got me through divorce, later
the death of her friend we both grieved,
and even as she comforted me,
her constant reminder: "I am still here,
care for me," and so I did,
and so I do now,
for she's made the final turn and limps
shakily forward toward a finish line
she has no choice but to cross,
and I cannot catch her when she breaks the tape,
for at her moment of victory she will have gone beyond my sight.
KTW/8-29-06
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