What happened. Did my cat die.
I sit at the small wrought iron table on my front porch. It’s a two-top. Lifted in the middle of the night years ago. From the outdoor patio of a café in Davis Square. Thrown into the back of my jeep. By the door guy from the bar with the purple neon sign. Where I used to work.
The bar where I met the musician that was my husband.
The detective sits across from me. He looks familiar. I think I’ve seen him before. In 2013. In front of a house in Cambridge. Where the man who was broken beyond repair that was my father-in-law once lived. Until he didn’t live anymore. That’s right next door to the brewery. Where I sometimes go. While the pre-teen is in ballet.
It just came out.
As if he had an affair.
And then discarded me.
The safety of the pre-teen becomes panoramic. Instincts and primal plans happen. She stands a distance away from me. On the sidewalk. There is a Stonehenge of policemen. Protecting her. From the news. And from me.
I remember the story my grandmother told me. The one about the molasses explosion. Is this what it must have been like. Suffocating. Under a wave of black stickiness.
Just above the shoulder of one of the Stonehenge Men. They search mine for information.
I keep my face organized in a blank state. For her. To keep the scary away just a little longer.
The Stonehenge Men that stand guard on the porch speak. Is there anybody you want us to call. A priest perhaps. I want to laugh.
Something bad happened. But not to my cat.
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