Proust is my Co-Pilot #44

A sting of conscience, it is a week of scheduling death. The vines are to be poisoned Tuesday morning; the cat is to be gassed Friday afternoon. I am full of questions, needling better reasons than human nature provides, yet, reasoning seems a shallow endeavor, when one is charting calendars, marking time and place, reconciling oneself to the role of killer.                       I have had,

always,                      this fondness for strays and weeds.

It is seemingly, unjust, to destroy something so willing to bloom a fresh purple each morning, inching and twisting its way through the links of a rusting fence, around the neck of a leaning shovel, creeping across drought dried dust, despite the disdain heaped upon it, perhaps that is why it wraps its skinny arms around every beloved plant, circling them from earth up, and back again, one precious seedling at a time, strangling the teacher’s favorite, the mother’s pet.

And the pet, is anything but, silky haired and pristine white, hiding in cupboards and under bed frames, mewing spit of voice, half hostility, half docility; yes, the cat solicits death. With a gluttonous disdain for life, the beast does as she pleases, forgoing solace in lieu of animosity, one has to admire her tenacity, her solidity.

Yet, a weed is a weed, whether vine or cat, choices are given, a wilted leaf beneath a pinked nose, one can only tell her,

“Misery is a misery.”

 

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