The Sage from the Weeds

I was standing
on the eighth hole,
a 99-yard par three,
thinking about the shot.
Nine iron in my hand.
The sweltering July heat.
Staring into the sun
at the green.
That big oak tree
on the right side.
Thinking about
how many times
I had found it.
Avoid the trouble right,
I whispered to myself.
Golf is strange that way.
You overthink everything.
A man can spend four hours
chasing a little white ball
around a field of grass,
trying to convince himself
he is better than he is.

Then she showed up.

Out of nowhere,
a little female tabby cat,
walking across the tee box
like she owned the place.
No hurry.
Blinking those ancient green eyes.
A sage from the weeds.
No concern.
No idea
that I was in the middle
of an important golf moment.

She meowed a couple times,
then jumped into my cart
like we were best friends.
No introduction.
No hesitation.
Just a little cat
deciding she belonged there.
A few minutes earlier,
I was worried about breaking bogey.
Now I was scratching a tabby cat
under the chin
on the eighth hole,
laughing at the ridiculousness
of it all.

We spend our whole lives
missing the best.
Chasing something.
Anything.
And the best moments
usually don’t ask permission.
They just show up.
They don’t care about
our plans,
our worries,
our little victories
or defeats.

Sometimes life just walks up,
jumps in the cart,
and reminds us
we were never meant
to just keep score.