“You Can’t Go Home Again Because You Are Poisonous”

Returning from the burial of Ralph the cat

It’s our walk the way we used to do it, when we were new; down by the clearing with the pale tossing grasses; into the shadows and looping gnats. We meander, and our pity for the cat makes us gentle. How we tucked the swaddled corpse carefully into its rough hole. How we filled the grave in and secured it with big, practical stones. We stood for a long time and left without speaking.

Under the climbing oak, just before we come back out within sight of the house, Ralph stops and we hold each other for a long time. Our silence is like a long release of breath. We don’t kiss, we don’t kiss anymore. We just stand together in this chilly shade, clinging, smelling the damp earth. Together, we fear one thing and then another thing, and don’t want to return and are going to return.

Then Ralph says, “I was thinking . . . I’ve decided to announce that I’ve attained Buddhahood.”

The way he says it is so square and weird. It puts a stop to us.

“Oh, no, you’re kidding me,” I say uncertainly. I stand away, ready to laugh.

He shrugs, “Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”

We still hold each other’s elbows, but we’re enemies. I can’t stand him. I can’t stand him so much I flag and think of other things. But at last I say, in a lethargic, inattentive voice:

“Well, if you do that, I’ll just leave.”