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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #470786 added November 23, 2006 at 6:47pm
Restrictions: None
Scotty
You and I have come a long way, haven’t we, Scotty?
I remember when Paul first brought you in. He said he stopped by the pound on a whim and he picked you up for me because they told him that you only had a few more hours for adoption, or else. Then you both came in from the rain, shivering and wet. I didn’t know which one of you to tend to.
You were such a smart puppy, too. Paul trained you in a matter of days. On the other hand, I kept my distance from you. Forgive me for that, Scotty. I always loved you inside my heart. It was only because of what you signified and why Paul had brought you to me.
You and Paul were inseparable those days. Remember the day we three went on a picnic by the lake? You suddenly dashed after a squirrel and I ran after you. What would you have done with that squirrel had you caught him? Play catch? You don’t have even one tiny mean speck in you, Scotty. I know you did that because I was about to weep and you didn’t want Paul catch me crying.
That first time, and many times after that, when I had just gotten off the phone with Dr. Abrams, you grabbed your leash with your mouth and dragged it to Paul, for him to take you out. I knew why you did that. You always sensed it when I was about to break down.
On the days when I was too choked up to eat, you kept pulling me by my skirt to the refrigerator, and when I collapsed in the kitchen and wept, you licked the tears off my face. This happened so many times that I lost count. If it weren’t for you, neither you nor I would have made it this far.
You also helped me cry, Scotty. I couldn’t have done it without you. You helped me cry the day Paul died when you sat on his slippers licking the leather. I swear I saw tears in your eyes. That’s when I started howling and everyone came rushing. They wanted to calm me down. They didn’t know that this was my healing and you were the one who started it.
Right after Paul, we faced quite a few storms, you and I. You came to me each time it thundered and you trembled with your head buried in my lap just as you would have done with Paul. Those were the times when you and I cried together to the threat of the roaring wind outside, for together we had learned what agony was. I would have felt so alone if you weren't there, because when Paul left, he took almost everything, except you.
I hope you understand one other thing, Scotty. There was a time when I was so involved with myself that I couldn't think of you. I felt I couldn’t take it anymore. I am sorry about that one day when I had decided to go after Paul. I couldn’t stand the torture of Paul's absence and I couldn't think that you'd be left all alone. But you jumped at me and knocked the pillbox off my hand. Then you barked and barked until the neighbor next door came knocking. I told him I was sorry that you were barking and I would quiet you down in no time. That was a lie, you know. I am glad you barked, for to me, your barking was the words of a prophet.
Then last fall the white birch dried up. Paul and I had planted it a week after we had bought the house. You and I sobbed together, crouched on the ground near its lifeless trunk, until the evening darkened. The world had failed all of us. Nature is a heartless ogre that carries out its tragedy with dead trees, dead leaves, dead plants and dead lovers.
Last night was our anniversary, Paul’s and mine, and it was so beautiful. Wasn’t it? Paul was here again. It wasn’t just in my head. You ran to him also. He stood there immersed in a soft light, looking at me smiling. Then he pointed toward the bookshelf and the computer. I looked. When I turned to him again he wasn’t there. I called him back. He didn’t come but, instead, you came to me. You jumped on my lap, whimpered a bit, then licked my face. Again, you tapped into that silent pain in my heart and your warmth penetrated into my soul. You are always looking into me, and looking out for both of us, just as Paul must have figured you’d do.
Paul had taken many photos of you. They are all gorgeous, but then Paul was a professional. This is my amateurish attempt to capture your tender insistence. Although you haven’t seen me write in a year, you haven’t forgotten my passion. You have been pulling me to sit by the computer and start writing again. Again, you are right. Writing is my life but then Paul was too.
Yet, when you look at me like that with your head tilted to one side, I can’t help but smile now. This smile is your accomplishment. I’ll do what your eyes are begging me to do. I’ll try again. I’ll at least work on that half-finished script. Without Paul it will be difficult, but you will help me. Why did I put my computer glasses on you? Because, from now on, you are my co-author, Scotty.
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