The Cat That Does Not Laugh

Memory is a terrific function. Memory has at once the power to preserve and to torment. I remember with accuracy one night in Germany when I was watching TV alone but for the cat. I can still feel the room‘s temperature (toasty warm). I can still see the time of day (magic hour, just after sunset). My breath catches when I remember my eyes flashing in the reflection in glass of the balcony door (a combination of internal lighting, external darkness). In my memory, something funny happens on TV. I laugh and turn to see if the other person in the room is laughing too. There is nobody else in the room, just the cat. The cat looks at me and closes his eyes and starts purring. I can still now feel the disappointment that no one was there to share the humor, and that the cat didn’t laugh.
My father laughed when I told him this story, aptly titled The Cat That Didn’t Laugh. He died recently, of unknown causes. His death was sudden, but not a complete surprise; he had been engaging in unhealthy activities all his life. He smoked. He drank. He worried constantly. He worried so much it would wake him up at night. Worry became obsession, and other people began to notice. One day about a year ago, he announced to me that he was replacing worry with concern. His vague explanation was that he read in a magazine that worrying could kill you, so he reasoned that being merely concerned would prolong his life. I remember the twinkle in his eye that told me he was joking. I remember his wide eyes and grasping hands when he needed a cigarette (I rolled them to cut costs and control consumption). He reminded me of Gollum obsessing over the Ring, that one thing that would forever hold him in its sway.
The memories I bear of my father are so strong that sometimes I think he is still alive, and that I can ask him things. Has the chimney been swept in the past decade? Dad will know. How old is the pump that draws water from the well? Dad will know – I will call him right now. I am slightly shocked every time I catch my mind filling in the blanks with “Dad will know.” He probably would have known if he had not smoked, drank, and worried himself into an early grave. My hand reaches on impulse for my phone when I want to talk to someone about life’s difficulties.
I very soon remember that Dad is dead. He cannot return my calls. His ashes are in a box deep underground. There is no one around to share in my laughter, my joy. I cast about for him but he is gone, forever.
Dad is now the cat that does not laugh.

Requiescat in pace, GHWR.