The Well

By Henry Israeli

When my cat was dying
she only wanted to purr in my lap

and when I asked her how much pain
she was in, she blinked once.

In the morning I found her sprawled out
and stiff, her eyes utterly still,

reminding me of how my father,
years after losing his mind,

slipped away on a hospital bed
with no sheet covering him

while I held his hand, still warm,
and counted its freckles for the last time.

In my chest, I had a feeling
of neither sadness nor relief:

imagine a rock lowered into a well
until it barely touches the water’s surface

and then quickly sinks.
Then imagine you are that well.