Tuesday

I'm tired of losing things.

My keys.

My glasses.

People.

Things I thought

I had a little longer to keep.

My cat Tuesday was dying.

I kept trying to bring her inside,

but she liked her freedom and the sun.

I would find her there,

stretched out in the warmth,

and think: not yet.

Then one day

she wandered off to die.

I never found her.

Her daughter, Mange,

is still here.

Lately she lets me hold her,

which is new.

Maybe she knows

we're both running out

of things or time.

When Mange goes

that will be the end

of a certain life—

my daughters at home,

my marriage,

the woman

who thought she knew

how her story would go.

Years ago,

when Jennifer was dying,

I stopped going to see her.

I didn't want to lose her.

This was my solution—

as if my absence could cancel her death.

It didn't.

Loss doesn't wait

until you've said

everything you meant to say.

Sometimes you only know

something is gone

when you reach for it.

I suppose

that's why I'm still here,

wanting

a little longer.