It's Still Life

The Old Woman and the Grimalkin
(Or: A Philosophical Pause Before Sardines)

The old woman holds her head in her hands,
as if gravity might roll away with it.

The cat looks out the window,
places one paw delicately against the glass
like a tiny, furry philosopher
contemplating the infinite.

“Look, Old Woman,” he says,
“it’s autumn.
It’s too early to be dying,
and see over there,
those entirely too bright,
ridiculously named croak’us
in your garden.
They’re judging you.
But also… encouraging you.

It’s all very confusing.”

The Old Woman groans,
reaches for the aspirin,
and dry-swallows two with the dignity
of someone who has outlived better days.

“There’s a word for you, you know,” she mutters.
“You’re a grimalkin.”

The cat pauses.
Turns.
Ears swiveling as if needing exorcism;
he’s tuned to insult frequencies.

“Grimalkin,” he repeats, tasting it.
“That sounds… dark.
Mysterious.
Scottish, possibly.
I like it.”

She glares at him over her teacup.
“Grimalkin is a grumpy old cat,
you numpty fur ball.”

The cat freezes.
Whiskers twitch.
Ego visibly deflates, then reinflates with a soft pfft.

“…I’m hungry,” he announces,
as if no conversation has occurred.
“Shall we open a tin of sardines?”

Because some arguments
are best settled
not with words,
but with oil
and fish
and the quiet surrender
of a woman
who knows
she’s already lost.