I was so friggin' proud of her, <br />simply because she really was <br />without a flaw, as if ye Gods <br />had made her specially for me. <br />And she had let me take her hand <br />and home we went to see the folks. <br /> <br />Just one of them was present <br />on that sunny afternoon, it was <br />Aunt Hulda and she was so far <br />from being touched by what she saw <br />that she just stood there, hands on hips <br />and shook her hairy, quintuple chin <br />from ear to ear as if to say <br /> <br />'At night all cats are gray, my son', <br />words that she had uttered once before, <br />when I had made intelligent small talk <br />outside the window of another sheila <br />in the river district, she looked at both, <br />the mother and her daughter, one in <br />one out, and both so eager with their smiles. <br />' In twenty years that cutsiepie will be <br />the duplicate of what you see today.' <br /> <br />I aimed another glance at mother <br />and started to digest those tiny morsels <br />of the collected wisdom of my dearest friend. <br />And do I miss them both.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gray-cats-at-night/
