Hair Wars

*In honor of my sister’s cat, who took over the house and our hearts in her time with us.

The cat hair is everywhere at my father’s house.

It sticks to my father’s sweater as he greets

me at the door, rises in the air as my sister

waves from the family couch, the follicles

parachuting down on the wind from her hand.

It’s in the rugs, in the furniture, swept up in the air

each time someone stands to go upstairs,

and has somehow taken roost on the dog.

The cat hair is everywhere at my dad’s house.

I’m not angry at what has transpired,

not really. It’s allergy season, however, and the hair

has ridden up my nose a few times,

compelling my respiratory system to act

as if death is better than knowing alien

DNA has invaded.

Sniffles take over and construct cities

of used tissues, itchy eyes forcing my hands

to lift and blind myself scratching,

and if (or when) none of that works,

the war on terror is taken to my throat

where the muscles close and marshal

law takes command, decreeing

no air to come in or out.

I suppose the obvious solution

would be to remove the source,

end the hair war and be victorious,

but,

I look into that soft feline face,

have deep brown eyes look back

no judgement in their depths,

have that Siamese cat trail

behind my legs and lounge

across my lap as her body

vibrates in gentle harmony

with my heartbeat.

I see her trapeze over the stair banister,

waltz right up to the dog with little fear,

tap him on the nose with a delicate paw,

eye birds and cars flying past the house

from an upstairs window with the focus

of a watchdog, and I know.

The war on hair only had one outcome:

my father, my sister, and I buy a pack

of lint rollers and allergy pills

and the cat stays prancing

up and down the hallways

like she pays the bills.