Listening

You waken to the sound of an owl hooting, two cats screeching, and the sound of humans crying, their grief whirling into the eternity of nocturnal voices reaching out, a desperate call and response heard by insomniacs, dogs stuck in pens at night, and infants who awaken and join in the crying, the howling, the screeching, wondering why no is listening. 

You look out the window and see the silhouette of a neighbor mother picking up her infant, two cats running separate directions down the road, and the next-door neighbor family gathered beneath their large oak tree wailing into the night.  You know the young mother has died and go into the kitchen to make muffins, as if a plate of muffins will ease their loss, but it eases your loss of feeling unable to offer any solace.

You mix the blueberries into the batter, once again, remembering one by one your personal losses, understanding this neighbor family’s permanent loss, while the owl looks down at the family beneath the tree, the cats sitting on opposite sides of the yard watching the grieving family, as the baby falls asleep assured that someone is listening.