Stories and News No. 687
Since the day of death of Edwin, his cat Tom lives at the Medical Center VA, Unit For The Palliative Care, located in Salem, Massachusetts, USA.
The doctors decided to let him roam undisturbed in the hospital.
It seems that it reduces suffering of patients.
Here is Tom’s version...
Death.
What do I know about death?
I am a cat.
But I know something. Or maybe it's another one I do not know.
Where is Edwin?
Who is Edwin, you say? He is the man I lived with.
The man who was there, in the bed. The new one, not the other.
At the old house.
I am talking about this place, here.
He was there, under the covers, silent. Eyes closed. Motionless.
By the way, what does it matter?
It's not the look, the true proof? Ours and everything around us?
The noise of the voice and the awkwardness of action are useless pieces in the mosaic living.
Because eyes that know how to observe may distinguish the essential from the minor contours without the usual tests.
Read it as the overvalued demonstrations of the senses.
I am a cat and I can see in the dark, then imagine what kind of trust I put in the look to design my horizon.
What do you say?
Move one hand to the coveted figure?
And finally touching?
Well, this stuff is human.
We cats just look to marry the world.
With all its wonders.
Magnetic colors and unique shapes.
And a split second later we forget about it as an redundant interlayer in a banal phrase.
To fix our eyes on the only piece of island in the middle of an infinite archipelago.
A precious bread crumbs.
A shadow daughter of the case.
A fragment of the sun escaped the fall.
Trifles of existence.
Just like an old man named Edwin.
What? He is dead, you say?
The death...
I am a cat. What do I know about death?
And you? Are you sure you know more than me?
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The doctors decided to let him roam undisturbed in the hospital.
It seems that it reduces suffering of patients.
Here is Tom’s version...
Death.
What do I know about death?
I am a cat.
But I know something. Or maybe it's another one I do not know.
Where is Edwin?
Who is Edwin, you say? He is the man I lived with.
The man who was there, in the bed. The new one, not the other.
At the old house.
I am talking about this place, here.
He was there, under the covers, silent. Eyes closed. Motionless.
By the way, what does it matter?
It's not the look, the true proof? Ours and everything around us?
The noise of the voice and the awkwardness of action are useless pieces in the mosaic living.
Because eyes that know how to observe may distinguish the essential from the minor contours without the usual tests.
Read it as the overvalued demonstrations of the senses.
I am a cat and I can see in the dark, then imagine what kind of trust I put in the look to design my horizon.
What do you say?
Move one hand to the coveted figure?
And finally touching?
Well, this stuff is human.
We cats just look to marry the world.
With all its wonders.
Magnetic colors and unique shapes.
And a split second later we forget about it as an redundant interlayer in a banal phrase.
To fix our eyes on the only piece of island in the middle of an infinite archipelago.
A precious bread crumbs.
A shadow daughter of the case.
A fragment of the sun escaped the fall.
Trifles of existence.
Just like an old man named Edwin.
What? He is dead, you say?
The death...
I am a cat. What do I know about death?
And you? Are you sure you know more than me?
Also on Stories and News: