Fog envelops the animals.
Not one can be seen, and they live.
—James Dickey
Yes, Son, a somber day in San Francisco, so it was,
your heart as heavy as fog pouring in from the Pacific.
Somehow, even the Golden Gate seemed to weep.
Somehow, Smokey, your cherished cat, had come
to the end of a life that we can only hope was not his ninth.
Well over a year you’ve known the end was inevitable.
So take comfort in rich remembrance of the good times,
not least the memory made at McLaren Park
the day you played together for the last time.
Once online your endearing video went viral!
Yesterday you must have been hard put to get out of bed,
to lift your head, to put one foot in front of the other.
Meanwhile, on the other side of a wide continent,
you are, as they say, “in our thoughts and prayers.”
Your mother’s and my condolences enfold you.
It’s no cliché to say no one has ever been blessed with a better son.
Please know I take paternal pride in how you rose
to the pinnacle of compassion anyone can show
for a beloved pet, shortening your time together
in order to end his malignancy-linked misery.
For a tortured week you wrestled with a vet’s advice.
Then, night before last, fighting to hold back your tears ,
you found the resolve to let Smokey go to a heavenly refuge.
Imagine him now in the company of countless kin,
all stalking their prey in a park larger than a thousand McLarens
—forever.
Yes, Son, a somber day in San Francisco, so it was.
But tomorrow is Dia de los Muertos in Garfield Square,
and I know you will be there to honor the dead.
Over here in the South, we call it All Saints’ Day.
For Saint Smokey we will light a candle and say a prayer.
Somehow, even the Golden Gate seemed to weep.
So, take comfort in rich remembrance of the good times.
Your mother’s and my condolences enfold you.
Please know I take paternal pride in how you found
the resolve to let Smokey go to a heavenly refuge.
Yes, Son, a somber day in San Francisco, so it was.
From the collection Nuda Veritas, published in Ireland by Revival Press.