THE PERSIAN

The wind howled like a banshee outside, clawing at the edges of my old house. The bug zapper that lit the porch, usually a boisterous symphony of mosquitos being electrocuted, now hung in silent, mournful stillness. The evening air, once filled with the eerie scent of his cigarette smoke, clung to a heavy silence, thick with unspoken grief. Inside the house, we were trying to comfort one another, while simultaneously grappling with the gaping hole my father’s absence had ripped into the fabric of our lives. The man who held the house together, the patriarch, the keeper of the family’s laughter and tears, had passed on.

But outside, on the porch, a different kind of grief was playing out, one that was voiceless, almost invisible. A sleek black Persian with emerald eyes, moved with the self-assured swagger of a tiny, bewhiskered royalty, weaving through the flowerpots as if they were her rose garden. She reached the porch steps, hopped up with an effortless grace that belied her plump figure, and then paused. Her glistening eyes usually narrowed in haughty disdain, widened slightly as she entered the scene. She approached his chair and gazed at the table that usually held his teacup and astray filled with cigarette butts. For a long moment, she was still, her posture radiating an air of utmost importance. Then, with deliberate slowness, she rose to her full height. She stretched, her back arching to a luxurious curve, before turning her head towards the window. Her sharp and intelligent gaze pierced the gap in the blinds as if trying to discern the secrets within the house. It was just a fleeting moment, a quick peek, before she dropped back down into the chair, settling again into the plush cushion.

She was…waiting. Not impatiently, but with a quiet, unwavering certainty. Her eyes, now half-closed, flickered towards the front door now and then, as if expecting him to appear. There was a regal patience in her stillness, a subtle hum of expectation that filled the porch. She wasn’t begging for food; she was expecting to be served.

Usually, at this time, She would be perched regally near his chair, her tail thumping gently against the legs, waiting patiently for him to toss a nightly offering. It was a ritual as dependable as the rising of the sun, a tiny act of kindness that had become the cornerstone of the cat’s evening. My father hadn’t just fed her; he’d talk to her, often sharing his thoughts on the day, occasionally confessing the worries he’d kept hidden from his family. He’d never expected the cat to understand, but the warm weight of her presence and the soft purrs that vibrated against his leg were an undeniable comfort. He had come to rely on the silent companionship of this Persian, a creature as weathered and worn as he was.

Tonight, however, neither man nor treats were there. The Persian, sensing the profound shift in the atmosphere, felt a pang of confusion. The usual aroma of his cigarette smoke and constant humming was gone, replaced by an oppressive stillness. She weaved her way up and down the steps, her sleek fur brushing against the scattered chairs. She looked towards the front door, her emerald eyes piercing through the darkness, searching for the familiar silhouette of the old companion. She waited, a tight ball of fur and confusion, expecting the door to open, her ears twitching at every rustle of leaves. As the rising moon began casting shadows, she remained, a furry, enigmatic sentinel on the porch chair, seemingly content to wait until the man of the house, finally acknowledged her presence and satisfied her unspoken demand. The hours crept by, the house still quiet, her hushed purrs fading into a deep, exhausted silence. The Persian, still planted by the porch steps, felt her stomach rumble with a growing emptiness. She had no concept of death, no understanding of the permanent absence of the man who’d always been there. She only knew she was hungry, and that the comfort of human companionship was gone. The moon climbed higher, casting long, mournful shadows across the yard. A cool breeze rustled through the leaves of the tree that stood sentinel in the front yard, a sound that usually signaled my father’s arrival on the porch, but now it brought only a chill. The Persian, his body now shivering slightly, let out a soft, plaintive meow, a sound that was swallowed by the vast emptiness of the night.

From inside the house, I stood, restless and unable to sleep, and finally made my way to the living room window. My eyes, dulled with grief, were drawn to the porch, my father’s favorite place. And that was when I saw her, The Persian, sitting forlornly by the porch steps. A wave of fresh sorrow washed over me. I recognized her immediately; I’d often watched my father from the living room window, chuckling as he shared his scraps with the creature. It struck me then, how many lives my father had touched, in ways both large and small. I’d been so preoccupied with my pain that I hadn’t considered the impact of his death beyond our family.

I slowly padded to the kitchen, my bare feet whispering on the wooden floor. Opening the refrigerator, I found a small container of leftover tuna, then, I quietly opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The Persian, startled but hopeful, looked up as I approached. She was wary of me initially; I was not the source of her nightly feast. But the familiar clink of a dish and the smell of tuna filled the air, and her caution wavered. I placed the saucer on the steps and stepped back, offering her space. She hesitated for only a moment before darting forward, burying her head in the food, her purrs filling the silence. I watched her, my eyes red and lips trembling. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was a small, silent acknowledgment of my father’s kindness, a simple act of continuity in the face of overwhelming grief. As The Persian ate, I felt a small spark of something akin to peace ignite in my heart. This wouldn’t bring him back, but it would honor his memory and his gentle and generous spirit. I knew now, that in feeding this cat, I was keeping a piece of him alive, a connection to the quiet acts of love that had defined his life. This stray, much like myself and our family, was also grieving the absence of the man who’d made this house a home.

The porch was still empty, the chair still silent, but as I retreated into the house and The Persian continued to eat, something subtle had shifted. The house, though still heavy with grief, seemed a little less lonely. The silence was a little less profound, punctuated by the soft purrs of a hungry cat. The Persian and I, were both beginning to understand, in our ways, the enduring power of kindness and the quiet grief of an absence that was too large to bear alone. The Persian, fed by a generous hand no more, would have to rely on the kindness of another, a legacy of the man who had always been there. And I, though my heart was broken, would start to rebuild, one small act of kindness at a time. The porch may be empty tonight, but it wasn’t devoid of life. The Persian and I, we shared a moment, a moment that hopefully reached his resting heart.