Pussy Galore
Sunday, November 04, 2007
My grandmother had a stroke Friday morning. I woke up a few hours after the fact, just barely able to absorb my mother’s harried text message through the murk lent by the previous night and its stimuli. I then spent most of that day fluctuating between fatigue and fright, skulking around the emptied house, unsure of what to think and how to feel. I had been updated that she was alright, but such information hardly ever dispels thoughts that have already begun to dog you.
She’s still in the hospital, and the house still feels very vacant. She has gotten better and is supposed to return tomorrow, but that’s tomorrow, and there is nothing tangible— or downright real—about that term. For now, there is an off-kilter, near-menacing mood to this place, and it’s making me all weary and wary.
Now, as with my stance towards astrology, my belief in the supernatural and its irrational ilk is flimsy at best. Regardless, there are some coincidences that the Overromanticizer in me can’t help but mull over. Case in point: the demise of my cousin’s cats.
My aunt believes, after having read of such a phenomenon, that pet cats die in order to dampen the bad shit that happens to their owners and their families. They kick the bucket just prior to someone’s misfortune, both a buffer and an omen. The night before I was robbed, for instance, Skipper the Cat died. (He was then thrown a Happy Death party—yes, with balloons—and now rests in supposed peace beneath a potted plant in the backyard—and no, I don’t know which one.) After my brush with the thieving bastards, my aunt was convinced that Skipper’s lot was meant to soften the blow, that his death may possibly have prevented my own. I, of course, didn’t know what to believe and wasn’t bothered by this indecision.
Then a morning or two before my grandmother’s stroke, just as I was about to jet for work, I came across a kitty carcass next to our gate. It was yet another member of my cousin’s extensive, tamed menagerie, albeit dim-eyed, rock-stiff and an ant-and-worm free-for-all.
It really is tempting to put two and two together, especially considering that my grandmother is said to be doing alright. I probably have the urge to do so only because it provides this strange sense of safety, this possible karmic web sturdy enough for all slip-ups. True, a large part of me is disapproving of this, ashamed that I could even regard something so seemingly hokey as a security resource. Then again, there is still that smidgen of me that knows safety isn’t certain. There is nothing tangible—or downright real—about that term. Thus, in that sense, I should be given leeway to value a few delusions. Moreover, there’s not much else to count on in such a hollow house.
posted by marguerite @ 2:37 AM
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