It's Still Life

The Fallen Branch
(Or: A Feline Inquiry into Loss and Limbs)

The Old Woman comes in from the garden,
arms scratched,
breathing slightly hard,
dragging the last of a great branch
to the burn pile.

The cat watches from the windowsill,
head tilted.

“Old Woman,” he says,
“that branch was large.
It was attached to the tree.
For years.
It grew there.
It knew the tree.
It shared the tree’s sap,
the tree’s storms,
the tree’s quiet conversations
with the wind.”

He pauses.

“And now it is gone.
And the tree is still standing.
So, does it feel the same
as losing a leg?”

The Old Woman wipes her hands on her trousers,
“Trees don’t feel things like we do, cat.”

“We?” he repeats.
“We?
I am asking about the tree.
And also,
I have four legs.
If I lost one,
I would be devastated.
Dramatic.
Immobile.
I would require assistance
with everything;
eating, sleeping,
judging the crow.
The tree,
with its hundreds of branches,
barely notices.
So no,
I suspect it does not feel
the same.”

He flicks his tail.

“But then,
why did you carry it away?
If it was meaningless to the tree,
why did you mourn it
by dragging it across the lawn?”

She stops.
Thinks.

“…Because it was in the way.”

“In the way,” he repeats,
“is not the same as mourning.
It is practical.
But I saw your face, Old Woman.
When you first looked at the branch.
Before you picked it up.
It was not a practical face.
It was a soft one.
A recognising one.”

She says nothing.

“I think,” the cat says, quietly,
“that you felt the branch.
Not as a leg.
But as a thing that had a place.
And lost it.
And you were the one
who carried it away.”

He settles into a loaf.

“I approve.
It is dignified work.
Carrying what falls.
Making room.
Noticing.”

A pause.

“Also,
if you ever lose a leg,
I will push your wheelchair.
With my head.
Aggressively.
Until you give me tuna.”