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{the cat on the short yellow bus} peggy eldridge-love The familiar pungent whiff of stale vapor rub, three-day-old garbage and the defiant sprays of his emotionally ill Cheshire cat greeted me. I was close to believing the unanswered calls were just a technical glitch or his legendary forgetfulness. Surely he would answer my intrusive knock with unmasked distain, his horn rimmed glasses, relics from another century, perched precariously on the very tip of his alcoholically distorted nose. He graced us at the center when he wanted to, which wasn’t often, but often enough for me to fear it had been too long. I hated the taste of the bile scorching my throat, or was it my heart that rose with the knowledge I’d seen the last of that falsetto scowl that hid the boy he’d never had a chance to be. I knocked again, only to be greeted by the unmistakable mournful cry of his emotionally ill Cheshire cat he’d never taught how to dial 911. |
