The cat is howling. Every few cries, one gets caught in his throat. I hear it scratch along his vocal chords, grasp onto his soft palatte, until the air forces him out, choking. Fine, he says, I'm upset.
What still surprises me is when I think about this. Not when I'm sad, not when I'm lonely. Or. Maybe I am, and this is how I realize that. It just catches me. Plugging in the toaster. Checking the mail. Practicing slow, dotted rhythms for grad school. My voice cracking- "Murder on the High C's," I heard, the other day.