Summary

The website content is a personal and heartfelt poem titled "Parrots Cannot Fly in a Straight Line," written by Erika Burkhalter in memory of her cat, Emerson, which also serves as a runner-up entry for The Lark's poetry competition.

Abstract

"Parrots Cannot Fly in a Straight Line" is a poignant tribute to Erika Burkhalter's beloved cat, Emerson, who has passed away. The poem vividly describes the natural scenes and wildlife that Emerson used to enjoy from the balcony, such as parrots flying by, hummingbirds, doves, and a red-shouldered hawk named Elena. Through the poem, Burkhalter expresses her deep connection with Emerson and the pain of her loss, reflecting on the changing seasons and her ongoing struggle with grief. She captures the beauty of the world as seen through Emerson's eyes and her own, acknowledging the fear of reaching a stage of acceptance where she can no longer feel Emerson's presence. The poem is accompanied by a photograph of Emerson and concludes with Burkhalter's hope that her cat can still perceive the world's beauty through her. Additionally, the website provides links to Burkhalter's other works and encourages readers to subscribe to her stories or join Medium to support writers.

Opinions

The author, Erika Burkhalter, conveys a profound sense of loss and love for her cat, Emerson, indicating a deep emotional bond.
She finds solace and a sense of continuity in observing the natural world that Emerson once enjoyed, suggesting that these moments keep her cat's memory alive.
Burkhalter expresses a reluctance to fully accept Emerson's passing, fearing the loss of the tangible connection she feels through her grief.
The poem reflects the author's belief that beauty in nature can be a source of wonder and comfort, even in times of sorrow.
The mention of the parrots' erratic flight path serves as a metaphor for life's unpredictability and the non-linear nature of grief and healing.
Burkhalter's writing style is intimate and evocative, inviting readers to share in her personal experience of grief and the process of finding beauty amidst loss.

Poetry, Grief, Life

Parrots Cannot Fly in a Straight Line

A poem in memory of my Emerson — for The Lark’s poetry competition — runner-up poem

The parrots just flew over, Emmie.

I’ve watched them every night since we knew that you were gone.

And I’ve thought of you, lounging in the blue denim chair, that was yours, on the front balcony, watching the world as the sun was setting and the light began to slant golden and low.

The hummers would be clicking and hollering and landing on the unruly twigs erupting from the top of the avocado tree.

I can almost hear your little kitten chirps when they buzzed you in their frantic frenzy for the feeders.

The doves would be crowding out the finches. And Elena, the matriarch red-shouldered hawk of our stand of pines, would be crying in staccato bursts from the vault of the sky.

And then the parrots would fly by.

They can’t fly in a straight line.

But I know that you know that fact, probably better than me, because you watched them every time. And you’d be so happy to be a part of the evening.

You’d blink that slow blink at me — to tell me how full of wonder with the world you were. And I’d melt a little with the enormity of our love.

I’ve been watching the sun shift, almost an infinitesimal amount, each night.

And that pod of palm berries clinging to the clavicle of the Queen Palm — where the fibrous band of last year’s growth wraps her like a choker — it’s not green anymore. The yellowing of autumn has begun.

And I can’t seem to stop crying.

It’s almost as if my pain keeps you alive.

They say that acceptance is the last stage of grief. But I’m afraid to get there — terrified of a world where I can’t see you anymore. And so, I cling to the agony.

A glow has now seeped in, gilding the hillside with that last burst of radiance before darkness grows stronger than the light.

And the parrots are flapping wildly across the sky. You know they can’t fly in a straight line.

Can you see it, my Emmie — the beauty — the blinding, brightness of the beauty —

even just a little now, through my eyes?

This poem, for my beloved kitty, Emerson, who was taken from us too soon, was written through tears that cannot seem to be dried away for very long. Every night I watch those parrots, who fly north every morning and then fly back again, as the sun sets, to their evening roost, and I think about my baby, who would be utterly absorbed in the sounds and sights of the fall of the night from the safety of his little perch on our balcony.

I will miss you and love you forever, my Emerson.

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies).

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