Every day after his dinner
the cat lets out a yowl that cannot be explained
Is he still hungry
Was the meal too wonderful
Who knows what he is missing or needing
to explain further

When she first died he would go to the bed
in search of her, and I would be there
and he would bury his head in my hand
and be comforted.

But sometimes
a yowl
is what
is needed


  1. Ohhhhh Patty
    This is such a sad day. Three years ago I was just settling after a day of Christmas decorating. As you know I can go over the top. I just had a hysterectomy and sat down with a plop! The phone rang and it was was you, yes, you were howling. I am now.......I can not control my tears.......I am howling at the full moon we had last night that is now buried in rain that is the world's tears that are being shed for our loss of beloved Lizzy. I am decorating again on this very same day. I will treasure my dinosaur collection that will forever be our main ornaments on the tree. Your pain is with me my dear sister. Pictures of the tree will come later.........
    Mary E.

  2. Thank you, Mary, for reminding me how much we cling to Christmas to give ourselves happiness.


  3. Hi Patty,
    I check in with this site frequently and it is a beautiful place to come and rest and think. Your writings and the other writings posted here are beautiful, and they mean a great deal- so thank you. Hope you are well.

    Katherine Eyster

  4. Thank you, Katherine,
    It is so good to hear from you.


  5. Dear Patty,
    Yowling is only appropriate. I remember so clearly the phone call from my daughter in the dorm that day three years ago. She talked about how all of Lizzy's friends were bereft. How they sobbed. What a hole it would leave in all their lives. All I could think was, "yes, dear child, I are all so sad and shocked...but this girl has a mother who will never be the same."
    What I said instead was, "I love you."


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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry