For My Sister, My Muse
Cross the vast, arid sands of time,
Correcting an injustice, a terrible crime.
I met someone whom I should have known.
But cruel fate would have it, I was left alone.
Cruel fate, which had severed our fusion,
Left me in a sorry state of confusion.
Like having my arm from my body cleaved,
You were taken from me and I was aggrieved.
I know I should have known you all these years,
And yet you were always there in my dreams, hopes and fears.
One day I'ld find you. One day I must,
And hope would have it, you repaid my trust.
I saw your face and you read my mind,
My Beautiful sister, whom I should now find.
And there is one thing, of which I tell you,
That you have my heart and soul...'tis true.
A muse so sweet, so beautiful and kind,
And, dear sister, I'm yours and you're mine.
Well, I guess in retrospect it may have seemed like a good idea at the time, but the decision to adopt a pet Lemming from the North Shore Animal League didn't turn as well as I had hoped. Granted, Ingmar was the cutest darned vermin you'd ever hope to set your eyes on, but I guess Denise and I weren't prepared for the inherent melancholy in this species.
Truth be told, Denise and I hadn't set our hearts on buying a Scandinavian rodent. Rather, we had gone to the North Shore Animal League in our hometown of Port Washington of adopting a dog or a cat. It was their annual "Adopt a Pooch" weekend, and we were actually hoping for something from the prosaic lands of Labrador, Siam or Calico. But it just didn't work out that way.
As soon as we had entered the Shelter, we laid eyes on the rascally critter who was soon to be our Ingmar. He was slightly larger than a ferret, not quite as stout as a capybara, and almost as quizzical as a rat. In a word, he was hideous, and Denise and I just had to adopt him!
Now, before I continue, I should make it clear that we were fully aware of this breeds tendency toward melancholy and, dare I say it, suicide. And we had hoped that, based on human statistics, the selection of a male would make our adoptee more apt to reach the age of maturity. But we were not
truly prepared for the lengths this beast would go to in order to terminate his existence. The woman at the Shelter had warned us, but I guess we were just too smitten to listen.
We had picked up some Lemming Chow (basically dried lingonberries with desiccated meatballs) and the seminal work on the species, Kevorkian's Guide to the Care and Feeding of Your Lemming, and headed home. I knew the obvious, and had taken great care in hiding all the knives and other sharp
objects (not to mention all editions of poetry by Sylvia Plath, Janis Ian and Joy Division record albums and prints of paintings by Van Gogh). In addition, I had knotted up all the cords to the venetian blinds, lest our Ingmar engage in a bit of auto-asphyxiation. But apparently, that was not enough.
I guess choosing the name Ingmar for our pet lemming wasn't such a good idea either. True, Ingmar Bergman is my favorite Swedish director (actually, I think he is the only person allowed to direct films in Sweden, but I've never been able to verify this), and the lemming seemed especially
taken by such charming fare as "The Seventh Seal", "The Virgin Spring", "The Hour of the Wolf", "Persona" and other uplifting works of melancholy and despair by the Swedish Master himself. But I guess saddling him with such a lugubrious name could not have forestalled the inevitable.
The first day, we found that young Ingmar had decided not to take his meal. We had no sooner poured the Lemming Chow, than Ingmar stormed off to the utility closet in search of household cleaners. He seemed especially attracted to the ones with the skull and cross bones insignias.
Fortunately, Denise and I had the foresight to place childproof seals upon these. We retired, leaving Ingmar with his untouched bowl of Lemming Chow and a bowl of water.