A moment ago I switched off the noisy a/c, and now the house is flooded with birdsong. The neighborhood is very quiet, more like a Sunday morning than a weekday. Summer rhythms . . . yesterday the high school girl who lives across the street lay on her stomach in a strip of grass reading, reading, reading, and I thought I might cry from the sweetness of it. Though of course most anything can make me cry these days. I am leaking tears, just as I did in the months around our move from Harmony. "Don't mind me," I used to tell people. "This always happens."

Still, despite the constant slow drip, I'm getting used to Ruckus's absence--to sitting outside without him, to climbing into bed without him. I can't help but imagine how angry he'd be, watching me manage. He had zero confidence in my survival skills.

Yesterday morning, before the heat kicked in, I worked in the garden--planted second-crop greens, did some weeding, ran the trimmer. Today I'll meet a friend for a walk, then do a bit more weeding, and eventually return to desk obligations as the day warms. I'm waiting for a big new editing project to appear. I've got prep to do for my upcoming Poetry Kitchen class. I suppose I could try out a poem draft, but writing the cat's obituary seems to have sapped my fluency. Unfortunately I'll miss my Thursday poetry group this week as that's the night we're flying out to Chicago. So the only words available will be the ones I stumble over on my own.

I thought maybe yesterday would be an easier day, emotionally, but it wasn't. It was the first day I'd been alone in the house since Ruckus's death, and his absence was everywhere. He was such a social being, always making sure he knew where I was, always close by, whether inside or outside. Without his company, the house and garden feel dead.

I know I'll get over this sensation eventually. So I'm still plodding away at my chores and pretending that I care about them, because one of these days I really will care again. And I know I ought to get another cat sooner rather than later. It's better for me to have a little someone to tend and fuss over.

But this week is not the week. I will continue my sad round for a few more days, and then we'll fly to Chicago into the embrace of our kids and their three rowdy cats, and when I'm home again I'll figure out what to do next.

This morning I'll get into the garden . . . tear out peavines and sow kale seed and salad greens, prune and stake tomato plants, do some weeding and mowing and trimming, and otherwise ready the beds for a few days on their own.

One bit of good news is that my younger son's health issues seem to be abating. In the summers he leads wilderness canoe trips in northern Ontario, but this season has been tough. He started off with a bad ear infection, then had to be evacuated from his trip after he was stricken with full-body hives. The med staff can't figure out what triggered anaphylaxis; best guess is a bite or a sting exacerbated by stress over Ruckus's death. In any case, it was a scary situation, handled deftly. By the time I learned about it (yes, during the conference and, jeez, how much can one person compartmentalize while trying to do a hard job?), he was on a cocktail of meds and responding well, and yesterday he cheerfully told me that they were bringing him back to his campers and he would continue the trip.

No option but to trust. The staff are well trained in wilderness medical emergencies. All I can do is wish him bon voyage.

Almost imperceptibly the early mornings are becoming darker. At 5 a.m., I turn on a lamp and peer into a garden of shadows. A robin sings andante. Heavy air leans a cheek against the open windows.

Last night I slept, really slept, for the first time in more than a week. Writing Ruckus's obituary was a help in that regard, as I knew it would be. When I sent copies to my sons, both were relieved--not just because they were pleased with what I had said but because they knew that framing words around his death would carry me forward.

I wrote the obituary, and then I reread it about a hundred times, off and on throughout the day. That, too, was helpful. Ruckus has entered the land of legend. When the new stories end, the old stories step into their power.

So this morning I feel ready to turn to other responsibilities: post-conference paperwork, unpacking books,  catching up on housework. Because of my state of mind--because I had to compartmentalize my grief so strictly last week--I couldn't keep you apprised of how well the conference was going. In truth, it was transformative. Bringing in Gretchen and Gwyneth, expanding our learning into body-thought, had a tremendous influence on the collaborative projects that the participants created. I heard new freedoms in their poem drafts, in their conversations. I felt these new freedoms in myself and in the collaborative lessons that Teresa and I were constructing on the fly. We left the conference with a great sense of anticipation.

I don't know what will happen next year in Monson. But I am already excited.

On Thursday evening Tom and I will fly to Chicago to spend a few days with our beloveds. Given our newly lonely household, the timing is good, despite the breathlessness of shifting so quickly from one sort of travel to another. In the meantime, I will try to learn to be without my dear little noisemaker. I will try to look inside myself, outside myself. The days march on.

* * *

During the conference, I received notification that one of my essays appears in Vox Populi's list of most-read works. I wrote this piece quite a while ago, when my younger son was still in high school. It was strange to revisit it.

 

Ruckus Plantagenet Ozymandias Xerxes Van Pelt, king of Maine, died unexpectedly on July 8 after suffering a blood clot. He was thirteen years old.

Ruckus was born on the Ides of March, somewhere near Bangor, Maine. His parentage is murky, but reputably he was half Siamese, half Russian oligarch. He spent his formative years in the town of Harmony, where, under the tutelage of his adoptive mother, Anna the standard poodle, he learned much about the wiles of chipmunks and developed his taste for large social gatherings.

Midlife, after moving grouchily to Portland, he discovered new horizons. Though he had spent his early years as a country cat, he stepped into the role of neighborhood icon with confidence and aplomb. With his across-the-street friend Jack “The Block Captain” Glessner, he founded the Neighborhood Bratz, and together they adventured into other people’s garages, snubbed small dogs, and posed for countless album photos on the hoods of cars. 

Ruckus was filled with grievance and vanity, and he was always eager to share these talents with his fans. His charisma and self-satisfaction were boundless. While he hated art, especially poetry, he was always gracious when a fan composed a song about him (for instance, the well-known pop tune “Construction Cat,” in which he wears a cravat and berates his employees) and enjoyed starring in the limited-edition comic book series Cat of Action. At the time of his death, he was in talks with Marvel about taking control of the universe.

Ruckus had many talents. He clawed furniture and smeared dress shirts with hair. He was an impeccable alarm clock, always set too early. He was a champion sulker and bigmouth, with a yowl that could stop traffic. His family still wears the scars of his claws. With such skills, he even began influencing the past: the 1960s Mission: Impossible team often consulted his string expertise, and Leonard Nimoy frequently mentioned how much better Ruckus would have been in the role of Captain Kirk.

Despite constant publicity, Ruckus loved his home and was deeply committed to his family and friends. High summer was his favorite season, and nothing made him cozier than family time, when he would bask in the grass as his loved ones sat around eating or cooking or playing cards. Yet he equally adored watching them get sweaty and exasperated and was sure to be nearby if they were digging a big hole or struggling with a flat tire. There is even a rumor that he invented Covid-19 so that his family would stop going to work. His dream was to convince all of his young people to move back in with their parents and set up beds in every room of the house. 

Ruckus was bossy, loud, and annoying. Everything was always about him. He was the life of the party, and his absence has left an enormous gulf. He is deeply mourned by his immediate family—Dawn, Tom, Lily, Paul, Hannah, and James—as well as his broader family circle, his neighbors, and his imaginary celebrity girlfriends. He was predeceased by his mother, Anna, and his best friend, Jack. Perhaps the three of them are in paradise together, all staring fixedly into the same chipmunk hole and ignoring the angels who are calling them home for dinner.

The lake is pure fog this morning--no distinction between water and sky, a flat wall rather than a horizon.

Today, after lunch, I'll head back to Portland, and to the empty place in our house.

It's been a beautiful conference week, despite my personal sorrows. I will write about it more. Thanks for being patient.

I got through the day by strict compartmentalizing . . . please, do not talk to me today about my cat . . . and that allowed people to forget to feel sad for me and so move on constructively into their day. It allowed me not to be leaking tears all day, allowed me to laugh and tease as necessary, allowed me to stay out late at the conference dance party, allowed me to come back to my cabin sweaty and panting, allowed me to sleep for more than the two hours I'd snared the night before.

At some point next week I will write an obituary for my beloved king of Maine. He was a public character, and he deserves a public memorial.

Poor Tom is home alone in the bereft house. It is not so easy to cloak sorrow when one is in the place where the life was lived.

Thank you to all who sent me little notes.

Last night I got back to the cabin after Teresa's wonderful reading and found a message from Tom that he had to have our cat put down. 

A blood clot, untreatable.

Dear Ruckus. I will write a better memorial than this when I can.