WARNER

Warner rode in my brother’s backpack. He was a cat my brother befriended in college. He and my brother used to hitchhike between Providence and Riverside. My brother would come into the house, on a rainy and dark Friday night, a big aluminum backpack on his back, dripping wet, and Warner would poke his head out, concerned but none the worse for wear.

He struggled with his balance and seemed always a little out of his head, like he was stoned, which could have been true. I don’t think I knew for sure.

Warner was named after my friend who lived around the corner. We played football in my backyard and pretended we were everything. One night he and I walked down the dark road that ran past my house talking about Sex.

“I guess you just do it” is what we said,

“Yeah, I guess”

Then we were on to some other topic with less mystery.

I don’t think either of us ever knew anything about the other, really. But both of us shared what information we had or could collect, in the hope that one day, we might know something for sure.

Much later, I read an obituary somewhere.

How do we reconcile with all those we’ve known so intimately to have discussed such things, and whose ghostly spirit may have been transferred to a cat or be beside us now, for all we know.