It's April Fool's and my cat died. I woke up this morning and watched him dying on the kitchen floor, his fat black body stretched out, mouth open. I was afraid everyone would think I was joking, but they didn't. I guess it was my eyes, they go from gray to clear when I've been crying. I admit I did, briefly, in the bathroom of the preschool where I work, after watching three year-old kids racing at recess. I remember in first grade my teacher read us a short April Fool's chapter of Sideways Stories from Wayside School at storytime. It was only a page long and the whole class begged for another more substantial Louis Sachar fix. She promised us one, licked a finger, turned a page and then smiled "April Fool's!" she shouted. That's how I feel right now. Like a disappointed first grader, not sure what has been taken from me or why. I never understood cruelly twisting someone's expectations, though through elementary school I continued the vicious cycle, generally convincing a friend one of my parents was dead. Now, the loss is real and I'm still stupidly thinking: I wish the cat had told me. Under the scalding spray of my morning shower I half expected to open the bathroom door to him purring over his Meow Mix, a higher power's cruel idea of what this day should be.
-Royal
