The Bister Color (a Corrie poem)

Remember how you sat with

Belle when the autumn of her

life slipped

from three brown leaves

hanging on to branches

to frost across the bister color

of the grass and roads after snow

freeze causing car tires to curve

and squeal. They slide and get

stuck in the mud. Remember how

at the age of three you sat with her

when some might expect words,

“I love you, kitty.” But you said to Belle,

“I will sit with you. This is Princess

Tiana, and she wants to cook for you.”

You asked the hard questions and said,

“She’ll go to Jesus.” I wanted to say: I

think so, but I could not show

you my doubt. I replied, “Yes.”

You understood

her body was here, but her spirit was

gone at the time she took her last breath.

You breathed life into Belle as you sat and

talked to her. With your three year old

words, you painted scenes of trees with

every shade of green, where the lightning

bugs glow in one part of heaven where its

always June. Belle would have freedom

to wander heaven’s geography full of lands

beyond what we’ve ever seen with more

rain forests than the Amazon

where Belle can forever run and chase a frog.

The loss of any pet is tough. I lost my Siamese Lynx Point cat, Mia, when Corrie was six months old. We lost our family cat, Belle, of old age in December 2017. We lost our sweet Jack, age five months, yesterday. Corrie loved all of them.

By Rebecca T. Dickinson