My Father's Ghost by Laetitia Erskine

You came back to haunt me as a cat

But it is not a haunting
So much as a presence immaterial before
Dammed up
Without tactility
But now, it comes rushing to me
Wordless.

Often I look at my cat,
We lock eyes, the unblinking stare of one to one unbroken,
Or eyes narrowed, sight reduced and senses heightened to the glow of a haze of contentment,
Or closed in a fur cocoon of sleep.
It can happen anywhere warm and still.
Unlike the secret eyes of humans,
Invincible monsters,
Where to see them at repose is a rare defeat,
Eyelids too fine a tissue for their armour,
Lashes still or flickering on crumpled flesh, vein-streaked cheek,
The face of age and action scored –
Too shocking a story.

I look at my cat who comes to greet me at the door,
Who sits outside while I take my bath, or curls on the bathmat, or waits at the top of the stair, who follows me so closely I trip over him while making coffee,
And I ask how come?
How come?

The blood that warms, the fur that soothes, the limbs that wrap, and sometimes the mewl of chatter,
But mostly the eyes that lock on me, the faith to follow, cohabiting my footsteps with no announcing, no dissembling –
A face that bears the imprint of myriad arctic beasts and Egyptians gods
Stealthy in the forest, tough in snow,
Burrowing into my palm
With no explanation.

My children did not do this.
They are too brutally themselves.
Their dance of love is articulate, pompous, a violent give and take.
But this cat – how come I ask?
How come?

What was locked and I lacked before wells up at a love with no conditions
That dwells mainly in silence

To render me – once rent –
Anew
Raw

And remind me terribly of you,
Impossible, untouchable jigsaw,
The face that you had that is my face too.

………………..

Laetitia Erskine is a writer and collector of literature degrees, currently completing a Masters in Creative Writing. She lives in London with her husband, two children, a cat and a pond full of frogs.

Twitter: @LaetitiaErskine