If You’re Happy I’m Happy
My cat is losing his mind. He’ll only eat from his bowl
when I walk over to it and act like I’m putting food
in it. There’s usually already food in it. I stand there
some mornings imagining it’s 2045, though I’ve never gotten
that specific. I’m writing a letter. Dear so-and-so, I’m
hungry, and I had this cat once who would only drink
from the toilet. I had to leave the lid up, and I had this
recurring fear the lid would fall, killing him. We all get
fragile in our ways. So I imagine all the ways I can keep
the toilet seat from falling. I could remove it. Or tape.
Or perhaps I’m just overreacting. I’ve been told that I
overreact. Right now, as an example, I’m listening
to Leonard Cohen sing, where he’s writing a letter, which
is probably why I’m thinking of writing a letter. Maybe
that’s not overreacting. I think I’m getting the concept
all wrong, which is something that happened on Tuesday
as well, where I conflated people watching a TV show
about a serial killer and how we were all talking about capital
punishment. It felt like a connection to me, how we were
saying this and this about hanging or firing squads, and I
grew depressed about the human condition, and it got me
thinking about how the serial killer was popular, that it
seemed people liked him, and I was thinking about how
we get ourselves to places where things like killing someone
and bringing your own plastic splatter sheets is OK to
watch, and maybe even while having ice cream or something.
It’s not the same at all, I was told, how that and the one
blank in the squad, the one blank shot, operate. So here
I am on Thursday, and I’m saying hello to the people I
come across. I’m asking them about their day, leaning in
just a little. It shows warmth. It shows how we care.