Friday, February 3, 2012

The Fur is about to Fly....

The cat doesn't know
that her world will soon be turned upside down.
This spot on the footstool cushion feels familiar
and safe,
in the sun and out of the sun,
the day passing as many days have before.
The house is quiet,
apart from the occasional banging
coming from the workmen in the apartment downstairs.
She is unaware of the "For Sale" sign
that has been pounded into the soft ground
outside the window just below.

The cat doesn't know
that soon there will be boxes,
Boxes to explore and launch herself into.
Boxes to rub against and cut into with her teeth.
Boxes left half full and taped tightly shut,
stacked neatly, waiting to be carried away.
On each side black marker will announce
its destination:

The cat doesn't know
that familiar pieces of furniture will soon disappear.
The dining room table that she perches on
to better oversee the dishing out of the evening meal.
The brown sofa that she summits in one leap
and quickly moves into the warm and vacant spot
when the phone rings,
or there is something else
to be tended to elsewhere in the house.
The many bookcases,
overflowing bookcases,
that fill the small room where the afternoon sun
forms rectangles on the carpet
in just the right spot. 
It will all be gone.
Whisked away
to another home,
another state,
another universe,
waiting to be explored.

The cat doesn't know
as she shifts on the stool cushion,
before curling back up against the legs
that always seem to be there.
Except when they're not.
And soon "when they're not"
will be the new paradigm.
The cosmic shift in her reality.
After a flurry of movement and men,
the house will go quiet.
The footstool and its soft cushion will be gone.
At least for a while.

The cat doesn't know
that the nearly empty house will only be temporary.
As the weather warms, the men will come again
and pick up the last remaining boxes.
Boxes marked:

The cat doesn't know
that she and her carrier
will be the final item to collect.
As she crouches unsteadily in her plastic cage,
swaying down the walkway,
remembering that trips like these
always end up in the same place,
her eyes will be the last to see
the house that we once called home.

But right now,
she doesn't know.
The sounds, the smells, the warm cushion,
the shifting legs that cause her to stir,
are all as they should be.

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