Her name was Tabby,
and she was fearless.
Pointed stare, pointed ears, pointed flair.
My first friend.
She died on stainless steel,
laid out like a queen.
The medical table
matched her grey matted fur.
Pressed my fingers to her belly,
white as snow.
Bobbing up
and down,
last breaths
spent
watching me from above.
Goodbye, my love.
Curiosity didn't kill my cat,
cancer did.
And from its keen sting, I got my first bite of death,
its aftertaste present
while teenaged me slumped in the backyard
alone,
listening
to the birds she'd want to chase.
Remembering
the times we'd play games,
the secrets I whispered
in those pointed ears,
perky whiskers brushing my cheek
as I kissed hers.
She purrs
as I stroke matted fur,
her tail white as snow.
Bobbing up
and down,
grieving memories replayed
for weeks
and months,
becoming years.
No longer a child,
I walk to her grave in the backyard,
where grass and sunlight and sentiment gathers.
And now
I only see good despite the end.
Her name was Tabby.
She was my first friend.
YOU ARE READING
DEAD
PoetryA young woman passes away unexpectedly, but she isn't entirely gone. Inside a hidden shoebox, she has left countless notes. Some for her friends, some for her family, some for her lover, and some for those she never got the pleasure of meeting. Th...
