While our hero walked down the hall of the La Quinta, her feral cats bounded ahead of her, oblivious to the gravity of their mother’s situation.
It is the way with children. A room could be filled with hyenas frothing at the mouth and any child with loving a mother would start to name them one by one and beg to take one home. Happy, innocent and completely oblivious to the reality of their situation was the natural state of a well-adjusted child.
But our hero was also oblivious.
Oblivious from a sense of sense of dread and despair which is the odd thing about being a adult. They lose their childish optimism and slide instead into a state of intense focus on problems rather than the soft fold of solutions.
I happen to think, however, that our dear hero, as she slid her key card into the hotel room and coaxed the feral cats away from the mini bar and towards their bed, would have liked to have known her future poet was also reaching his end.
It was so much unlike her own tail of neglect and abandonment.
Her poet was walking into his kitchen with own feral cats.
It was actually her idea. He had taken them with him when he went to play tennis. When he left the house with them, his own Queen of Chaos was delighted that they would all be gone. The poet playing tennis, the children rough housing with friends until all three re-convened and slipped into pool at night.
It was a good thing. It was the sort of break and support that our hero would have enjoyed.
But, no, as her feral cats bounced up and down on their bed in the hotel, the poet came home to scream.
It was selfish to go with the children to the club.
It was rude to take them swimming.
Yes, she was invited, but that didn’t matter because even though she said she wanted to have an evening by herself, somehow this only fueled a rage.
A rage that resulted in her yelling and cussing and the children running upstairs.
“Uh… this is really dumb,” the poet said.
That is when she attempted to throw a chair. Either it was the wine or her own lack of control but she could only manage to briefly lift it and drop it on its side 2 feet from where she stood. But, hey, she got an “A” for effort.
“I don’t get it. You asked me to take them. I took them. Now this this.”
She let loose a scream that sounded as if her soul was ripping in half.
And then, the strangest thing happened…
“Did you just piss your pants?” the poet asked.
“Yes, I fucking pissed my pants you fucking fuck.”
The storm disappeared going up the stairs, tripping and falling at the top. Another final thunder clap of cussing rumbled as she got back to her feet and into the bedroom.
The poet picked up the chair. He checked it for damage. He went outside. He pulled a beer from his refrigerator in the garage. He lit a cigarette. And then?
He did not laugh at her. He simply laughed about life and all the time he had wasted trying to duct tape a broken vase back together.
It was a pretty vase when he found it but it also had a leak in it. He tried to fix that leak with some tape and glue. Then it started to crack and chip. Repair after repair was performed.
And now? Shit, there was no vase left to pour himself into it. There was nothing left but the duct tape.
What else could he do but laugh?
This was his end and laughing always felt better than crying.
Besides, he felt a sense of relief in letting it all go.