When I was growing up,
we had a cat named Toni,
a male cat neutered 
for his own good.

When my parents bought a home,
neighbors told us 
the previous owner’s son
had robbed a bank, 
the money never found,
speculating it was hidden
somewhere in the house.

No one told us the place was haunted:
every month around the full moon
a thin, frail looking old man
appeared, sitting in a bowl of water.

My mother, who claimed 
to be able to read fortunes
in the bottom of a Turkish
coffee cup, spoke
to the ghost, asking him
to show us where the money
from the bank robbery was hidden.

Our neutered cat, Toni,
developed a fondness 
for exotic flowers and ate
a poisonous blossom.

The next time we saw Toni
he was sitting on the old man’s lap,
moonlight from the open window
shining through them both.

When my father ran away
to Florida with his secretary,
the ghost disappeared
and I moved into an apartment 
with three friends from college,
including one who claimed
to be clairvoyant,
although she never said
much that surprised me.

My mother and sister
searched the house 
for the stolen money,
tearing up carpets, 
knocking down walls,
and digging up the basement,
but never checked the attic
or the hidden stairs
in my old bedroom.

The ghost showed up once more,
outside my apartment window
the cat still on his lap,
scaring the clairvoyant
who was sleeping 
in my bed and woke me up,
Don’t be afraid, I said,
that’s our cat Toni.

She moved out the next day— 
I never saw her or the ghost again,
but every once in a while
I see a cat that reminds
me of Toni, and I lean down
to scratch its head,
my fingers remembering
what it was like to touch
fur and skin, instead 
of thin wavering light.