Est Requiem
Sunday, January 04, 2004Last night I dreamt that a chicken had hatched chicks in the woods behind out house. My mother said if we didn’t catch them and raise them they’d be wild, and we’d never know where their eggs were. So I went out to catch them. One was gray and still, dead, mutated. Another became a hawk and flew out of my hands. The third became a Siamese Cat, and I obsessed over where to put her, because I didn’t know what kind of eggs she’d lay.
What does it all mean? I don’t know.
What I do know is this: That Nia was very, very heavy when I took her out of her house this last time. I wonder why the dead are so heavy. Is it because the soul bears us up? Or was she bearing the weight of my heart, so that I could do my job?
The last time a dog died, a friend said that he went to a better place. She’s out of the state, and not here to tell me this again, and so I say it for her.
The ground was not frozen. It rained the whole time and it rains still. This is not poetry, but truth.
Permalink Cindy scribed this at 10:55 AM
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