The Great Undoing
Scientists tell us that, at the moment of death, certain parts of our bodies called macrophages begin the sequence of rebirth, as if potentially mirroring the processes of The Universe itself. That Black Hole thing.
You know what I’m talking about, the Black Hole thing? Where the whole Universe someday collapses into a Black Hole and comes out the other side? A brand-new Universe, fresh, all new?
You haven’t heard of that one? Maybe you’ve heard the Hindu version where it works with a lotus blossom. That’s alright, you won’t be around for it.
Typical of everything we see around us, so much of which mirrors something else. Doppelgängers, echoes, reflections of something somewhere. A twin that walks into your life from across an ocean, perhaps. A dog that reminds us of an uncle. A cloud that looks like a galaxy. Not necessarily an illusion, even if people tell us so. Not necessarily some dark Freudian subconscious figment. Perhaps more a Jungian artifact passing through time, suddenly appearing in our cave.
But those macrophages hammering away inside your dead body, cellular rebirths, they still don’t stop the undoing of human life. Your little cells are trying to rebirth you, but you’re done for. You’re already dead and they don’t know it.
Poor little things.
Undoing. In time, all things will be undone. Some things undone sooner with our assistance. Some things better off undone. Others cannot be undone soon enough and are better off forgotten. Then, some cannot be forgotten, either, at least not in your lifetime. What, then?
My former cat was born, like all cats, instinctively knowing, through fear, it cannot lose an eye or a leg, not even its tail. These losses for a cat cannot be undone, nor, once done, could they ever be forgotten.
When I found her, filthy, crouching alone, shivering underneath the lower S-curve of a dirty old toilet in a rundown, filthy, ammonia-stinking San Francisco Tenderloin apartment on Geary, in three rooms being shared by fourteen or fifteen Malaysian immigrants and upwards of forty felines of various age and breed, so small I could hold her sandy, tabby body in the palm of my hand, she was close to an undoing.
They all were, all the cats and all the friendly, smiling, poverty-stricken refugees from that strife-torn, heat-strafed undoing of islands somewhere to the ocean-blossoming West.
I was sent to undo the undoing of some other of their soon-to-be-undoings. Another cat they had stolen. Asked by a friend too afraid to go there. Get it back and be off.
Unfortunately, that cat was lying awkwardly, eyes shut, throat cut, in an old refrigerator. I left it, and them, for their futures, something I could not undo. But I did hold their door open for a moment as the Malaysians screamed and some living cats scramboobled out around my feet. Unforeseen reward in my pea coat pocket, sleeping.
Poor people love their pets.
On the WAY-off chance this might win, kindly donate that ten-spot to the kitty.
Not my kitty.
And anyone interested…