by Russell Rowland
My daughter just phoned from college, hiccupping from too many sobs at once. At her apartment window she oversaw a white cat’s death by radial tire. Inexperienced at flinching just in time, she caught it: that punted-football thump, the specter of cat whirled in a wheel-well like Monday wash in a clothes dryer. The cat felt nothing; she felt everything. She, worth more than many cats to me, now carries one stray’s death in her body,as someday she will have to carry mine. Today, all we could do was commiserate, foreheads leaning together long-distance.