You are at a cocktail party, talking to someone who is skewering
a small hot dog with a toothpick when you see the dead peeking
out of the pantry, motioning to you.
Your partner, looking up, just misses your raised eyebrows and
the small wave that has ended in your hand pushing through your hair.
You say, “Suddenly I have a headache. I need a glass of water.”,
and head through the pantry door where the hostess emerges carrying a tray
and announcing a game of charades. You allow her to pass,
then step
through the empty pantry to the kitchen where the black cook and three
older uncles are sitting around the kitchen table talking. They say, “Sit down. sit down. The party’s in here.” You laugh but decline
and go to the kitchen door where you hear something scratching to get in.
You open
it to admit the cat that walks in precise steps to its bowl and eats.
Outside, the snow is falling like teeming arrows to the
pavement
and piling up. A sudden roar of laughter comes from the living room.
Many people are calling your name. They want you on their
team.
The men at the table are rising. You join them, passing by the cook,
and the cat that never looks up from its dinner.