Phoebe and Me

 

As you nestle cosily,
your contented purr
a soothing massage on my lap,
I recall the day I brought you home.

I had driven, over the limit,
to see a friend after her desperate
call for help; we were two of a kind,
lost in a foreign hostile land
of drunken despair.

I found her lying on a bed
surrounded by a swarm of
furry squeaking babies
like confused bees
who had lost their map.

You stumbled over to me at the
edge of the bed, so small and vulnerable,
eyes like tiny fallen stars
as though pleading
but you didn’t know why.
I held you in one cupped hand,
stroked your innocent head with the other
and in a dolorous drunken daze
I fell in love.

Twelve years of contented sobriety later,
I am still in love with you.

My friend died.

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I take up my usual place on the sofa
with a cup of coffee;
your eyes light up,
bigger and brighter
than a Supermoon
because you now have my full attention.
You grab a baby walker;
of course you are no longer a baby
but it makes the best noise for
a host of different vehicles.
You roar past me
from one room to another
Look Im a fire engine!
Fires are rapidly extinguished
with amazing sound effects
involving spit.
Next time you appear
the baby walker is a lawn mower;
you tell me not to worry,
you wont really cut the floor
because that would be silly.
A police car, excavator and
steam roller all take their turns
in your own mini theatre
of imagination
until you begin to slow down,
rub your eyes and sit next to me
with teddy and a book.
What are you now? I ask.
Theodore, you say
as you snuggle close.

Wendy L. Macdonald

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