I haven't done much of import this last couple of days, Sunday, and today, Memorial Day, so it is hard to imagine that I'd have anything to write about in this blog. However. There were a couple of things that seemed to me, at least, messages from Providence, the Very Hand of God. I can't prove it of course. But I just have to note it for blogosphere posterity.
Yesterday, I went over to my father's and organized a bit more, as I have been doing, ever so slowly, and removed mementos (that will be the subject of another blog this week, I think), that have turned out to be far more in number than I expected. I came home and the weather being warmish, I opened the back door and placed the gate that I use to keep my indoor cats indoors and the outdoor cats, outdoors. They could, if they wanted, jump the gate,but it seems they are disinclined to do so. The suggestion appears to be enough. Well, all except for my newest boarder, Bleu, the largest domestic whitehair, actually the largest period, cat I have ever seen or owned. I do usually keep an eye on him, knowing his predilection for pushing the gate with his powerful nose and dislodging it and out. But I got distracted by household chores, including shredding some 20 year old paperwork, that probably did not need destruction, but I did it anyway. So about 6 ish or later, I notice the gate was askew and I hadn't seen Bleu in quite a bit, and it being circa dinnertime, I was troubled. Still, he is capable, as are all cats, of hiding and when you want them, declining to come to you. I called. I looked in all hiding places he would fit. I shook the crunchie food. All cats came to me, except Bleu. In days past, losing an animal outside obsessed me. I couldn't do anything except look. I remember once getting my father to go in search with me by flashlight and I was in tears at the idea of my first California cat, Hollywood, being left to fend for himself after years of being pampered. We found him in a bush about half way down the block terrified of the outdoors he had rushed to join and found wanting of safety. But with Bleu apparently disappeared, while I was worried, I was not frantic. I wonder why even now. Maybe I knew that he was smart enough that if he wanted to come back he would. Maybe I held out hope he was in this little apartment somewhere. I have seen them come out of impossible spaces that reminded me of how flexible the cat body is. Maybe it was that having lost pets by death before, and most recently a second parent, the fact that things don't always end well was a tiny bit less terrifying. If this was what was to be, though at some level my own fault, then it was. I did not losing this particular connection to my father, the creature who lived with him for the last two or so years, my father did think him to be the smartest cat he'd ever seen. I was depending on that smartness. I also decided, somewhat amused at myself for considering it, more for doing it, to pray for the intercession of St. Anthony, the finder of lost things. I figured that there was no limitation on the nature of the item lost, person, plant, thing, cat. Amused I may have been at myself, but it felt right. And I think I felt my father was involved too, although I did not articulate that to myself overtly. It was dark, whenI called my uncle and aunt who live in the same block and said that Bleu had probably gone missing, and if they saw a big white cat, the next day, or any day, yes, he was mine. They were getting all worked up, when I decided to take a probably not final look outside my back window. And there he was. Returned from who knows where, the only clue being that his four usually sparkling white paws were quite filthy. He offered no explanation. He came in and went to his dish as if he had not been anywhere at all. Thank you, St. Anthony. Thank you, Dad. I think.
Then today. I decided to go to the 12 mass at my parish, both for the extra spiritual refueling I need to face a week without losing my temper, and because it was Memorial Day. I planned on visiting the cemetery, it would be the first time in nearly a month since Dad was interred on April 28, but today seemed a perfect day for it, one way or the other. Not that I think he is there, behind the niche in that little wooden column like box. But it is the last tangible part of him, his body, and so it feels closer. I really talk to him these days whereever I am, as I talk to another friend, and even occasionally my mother who has been gone so very long. But that was the plan. After Church I went to Jan's the diner on Beverly Boulevard I used to coerce my father to eat breakfast with me on a Sunday, after Mass as it happened. He would always lament that he could make eggs better. It was true of course, but I like being out and about, and as he always complained, I was always antsy at his house, just the two of us. But I sat at one table that I recalled us sitting at, getting coffee, and he talking about the politics of the day (he'd really would have opined on the recent Hilary guffaw, and though he was no Hilary fan, he would have taken her side, I am thinking), and then we'd be off to Ralph's, or Jon's or the 99 cents store. Then I was off down La Cienega, which was packed because of a failed light, and it being a holiday, no one was going to be coming to fix it. When I broke free at that part of the drive where the oil rigs still pump, I was enjoying the fresh air, and the few cars now we had passed the jam. In the distance I saw two young men sort of waving, and I thought they were trying to interfere with the now few oncoming cars. Watching them, distrustfully, I did not see what they were actually trying to draw attention to a van, their van, I presume, no hazard lights, no lightsof any kind, and I was about to hit it going at the maximum speed limit, there about 55. I would be dead if I hit it. And maybe them too if it came to that, when I look back at the sequence. I now realized what they were doing, almost too late, and I swerved, there was no time to look left, and see if any other cars were coming, to avoid the van. There was only one choice, and I made it, and I had the thought as I did, oh, I hope there is no one behind me. Split second. And I was past the van. Luck? I don't think so. Providence. It wasn't my time. Or theirs. Thank God. Thank you Dad, cause I am pretty sure you were there too. That whole maneuver did not happen through me or by me. I was saved. Not to say that I expect that one day my time won't come, for I know it will, but it was not today. I thought about that when I got to the cemetery, and talked to Dad about it, pleased to see that the placque with his name is attached now. I prayed a little as I walked the hallway next to the greenery, and breathed deep and grateful. There must be something I have to do. I don't kid myself that it is anything big, but in the tapestry that is our lives, one small thing could have critical reverberation. I have to listen carefully to know what that might be, and do it willingly.
I pray that I am listening, that I will listen, and act when asked.
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