It's Still Life

The Old Woman Explains Thanksgiving (and other Impossibilities)

The cat’s draped across the kitchen table.
One paw outstretched
toward November’s window
where a plump pheasant struts
through the frost.

“Why,” the cat begins, in a tone suggesting a legal challenge,
“do Brits not have a feast?
And why is that bird so rude,
…and so large?
It’s taunting me.”

The Old Woman sighs,
wiping flour from her hands.
“That, my dear,
is a pheasant.
Not a turkey.
And this is England.
We had one harvest festival in 1621
and decided it was too much drama.
Now we just …
complain quietly
and drink tea.”

The cat squints.
“So you’re telling me
there is no table
laden with fowl?
No gravy?
No… pumpkin… things?”

“There’s pie,” she offers weakly.

The cat is not moved.
“Pie is not a bird.
And that one, that one outside —
is looking at me
with disrespect.
I could take him, no problem.”

The Old Woman levels a look.
“He is twice your size.
He fights back.
And he has allies
in the blackthorn hedge.”

The pheasant pauses,
turns its head,
and lets out a cry
like a rusty gate
swinging open
from gale force.

The cat’s tail fluffs.
Slightly.
“…Fine.
But if I don’t get poultry,
I will be unbearable
through Advent.”

And a cat still believes
the world owes him a turkey.