It's Still Life

THE CAT’S HEAVENLY MISTAKE
(Or: A Pine-Scented Epiphany)

He wakes beneath the tree.

A fortress of fir and glitter,
dazzled by fairy lights
that wink like trapped stars.
Above him,
an angel glows serenely,
her gaze fixed somewhere
between wonder and Woolworth’s.

“Ah,” he breathes,
tail-tip twitching in awe.
“So this is the end.
I knew I was too good
for this mortal realm.”

He stretches,
knocks a bauble with one paw,
it sways, shimmering.
“Huh.
Heaven has… toys.”

The Old Woman finds him there later,
batting at a low-hanging ornament
marked “FRAGILE – VENICE, 1998.”

“You’re not dead,” she informs him.
“You’re under the Christmas tree.
And you’re about to be evicted.”

The cat freezes,
looks from the angel
to the woman
to the shiny globe
reflecting his magnificent face.

“…Are you sure?” he asks.
“It feels celestial.
And there’s an angel.
And everything sparkles.”

She scoops him up,
sparkles and all.
“That’s tinsel, you fool.
And the angel’s name is Gladys.
She’s from Cardiff.”

But as she carries him away,
he looks back over her shoulder,
one eye on the glittering boughs,
and whispers,
just to be safe,

“Thank you for the toys,
Oh Shiny One.
I shall return.”