Like every other morning for all these years, Kitty’s little silver bell jingles at 5:38. She conducts her day with such rhythmic accuracy. I suspect she knows it’s my birthday and plans something special. But her routine doesn’t change. There’s no hint she considers this day special. She tours her territory with military precision, assuring herself no chair is out of place, that her water dish is exactly two inches from the wall, that her sleeping pad on the window sill is folded just so. As usual, after dinner, I sit in my chair and read. She appears in my lap with her most adoring purr. She has forgotten my birthday. Today is like every other day. Then to my astonishment she looks up and speaks three words in perfect English—“Happy Birthday, Bob.” She tries so hard. She’s such a perfectionist. I cannot bear to tell her my name is Dan.

forgiveness
is the cozy wool blanket
knitted by time

—Adapted from “The Perfectionist,” which appears in Gilmore’s collection of lineated poems Panning for Gold (Imago Press, 2014)

Bio: Dan Gilmore