Out There Still

The cats escape because our youngest girl leaves the door open. No amount of calling, no amount of salmon on the back stairs, will lure them home. It’s easiest for everyone to pretend another family has adopted them but we know they’re out there still. Nights, we see them on the property’s edge, crouching on moss, prowling for game, fur rising from their backs as if testing the air. The girls escape because we throw a party and in the muddle of drinks and small talk, we forget to tuck them in. No amount of pleading, no amount of extra allowance, will lure them home. It’s easiest for everyone to pretend another family has adopted them but we know they’re out there still. Nights, we see them on the property’s edge, sucking on wild onions, drinking from the neighbor’s spigot, their hair mossing across their shoulders. We escape because alone, without the creatures that depend on us, we forget why we bothered. We squeeze past the mailman delivering our bills and we flee, our noses quivering the wind like newborn rabbits. It’s easiest for everyone to pretend we’re on vacation, we’re taking a break from the hustle, we won’t be gone long, until we hurdle over the property’s edge into the hem of forest that’s out there still. We crunch small things under our soles and make love on moss and we tell each other this is not escape. It is return.