Mes Trois Chats

I opened my bedroom door this morning & was immediately greeted by the excited meow-squeals of the littlest, Evelyn. She was much too happy to actually sit & let me pet her, so I simply extended my hand & let her rub her own head against it. She continued to wiggle around my legs & bestow sweet love bites to my ankles while I went about my morning routine in the kitchen.

The rain pattering against the skylights echoed in the high ceiling space. A rumble of thunder reminded me that my Toulouse was nowhere to be seen; even the mildest of storms sends him into hiding. Before I finished pouring my coffee over a thick bed of coconut oil & cream, I deduced the most probable place he would be. Sure enough, I found him there, hunkered down behind the toilet, the farthest location from any portal that could expose him to the elements.

Like the wonderful cat mum I am, I moved the small trash bin & knelt beside him. I stroked his worried forehead & gave him kitty-kisses with the slow blink of my eyelids. It was not until I heard a soft purr start in his throat that I gave him a final kiss & continued to get ready for work.

Berlioz had been watching me from the bathroom counter all that time. When I went over to him, he arched his back in a big stretch, leaning into my loving neck scratches. He sat there next to me through my whole grooming ritual. This is most likely because I offered to let him sniff various things—the toothpaste cap, a cotton swab damp with witch-hazel, my contact case—as I went along. He enjoyed that.

My phone suddenly lit up & told me that I was running 5 minutes behind schedule, but a last round of goodbyes felt worth the inevitable hurried sprint across the flooded parking lot & dash up three flights of stairs when I got to work.

First I kissed Berlioz atop his giant head. Then I bent down to Toulouse & whispered assuredly that the storm would soon pass. And then I exited the bathroom to a delighted squeal from Evee who was squirming for another nuzzle.

“Have a good day, ma petite.”

Purse, lunch, coffee, umbrella—into the rain.

Prevailing Light

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Gray clouds slid down the windshield of the sky like a river of ash, aiming to shut out the sunrise. But how that golden wave pushed back, glowing in its righteous defiance! Its colors flushed richly with the strain of its struggle, orange burning at its cheeks.

Its light was so pure & good that it drew in the help of the gallant east wind. Quite unfortunately, the wind’s charitable gusts proved almost too enthusiastic, & the moment it heard the bitter, shivering mumbles of cold humans tightening their jackets against it, the invisible Titan mercifully settled.

But without the wind the brave little sunrise trembled & began to falter. And so the gentle moon, still watching nearby, just on the other side of the veil, came to aid the cause. It did what it could to pull back the stormy tide, but, as for all creatures of the night, the day is primarily for sleeping, & its assistance quickly yawned into absence.

Noble efforts as they were, the darkness continued to fall, & the golden glow dwindled. With both quivering hands pressed against the descending shroud, the dying morning looked down upon the earth with an apologetic flicker.

I stood in the window, staring into the rapidly fading warmth of yellow light until the heavy clouds pinched out the last line of color on the horizon. But I did not despair; instead I smiled gently at the hazy orb still rising behind its dreary oppressor. A dim but prevailing light illuminated the day.

 

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Rising Day

A subtle, rising glow of light breathes gently upon the foot of darkness; morning waits beneath the horizon, building slow anticipation for the wide & shivering faces already packing themselves into frosted vehicles to start the day.

The foaming orange wave swells & crashes against the receding purple veil, gradually washing away into the signature blue sky that blesses us in the daytime—but not before finishing its grand entrance, anything but routine, a new show every sunrise; it is the purpose & joy of the proud sun to perform for all creation, awing us with its brilliant displays of color & light & warmth, illuminating the stage & allowing the sky to be seen.

A thin break of red flashes just under the curtain, almost open, the final gesture of the prelude, which rolls into the next scene. The painted clouds freeze for a moment on the closing frame. The earth smiles—I capture a picture—& the colors slowly sink into the still blue.

Act Two.
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What Strange & Resilient Things

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Oh, all the strange & resilient things that don the old trees in the wet winter forest.

On the weathered faces of those sleeping giants, clever mushrooms appear like five o’clock shadow. Their roots, stretching out across the plush carpet of decay like callused & twisted toes, are graced with fuzzy green socks of thick moss, rich in color. And around every naked trunk, wrinkled & leathery like roughly aged necks, are fashioned snug scarves of ivy vines.

High up, the wizened branches may crack & creak, like ancient bones in cold discomfort, but down below, damp leaves, like blankets of freshly shed skin, silently compress into fresh fabrics for spring clothing.

 

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Sacrificial Leaves

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Often I forget
That leaves are alive,

And all those that fall
Are all ones that die.

I am dismayed by the sight
of the fleshy green

Slowly enveloped
In a dry, sickly sheen.

They fade in the shade
of the Good Father tree,

The mighty immortal
Who let die each leaf;

The mighty immortal
Who sacrifices to sleep.

 

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His Estella

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I let the story seep into me, let the words shed light on my own shadow-distorted memories that had haunted me since first her existence was made known to me; never before had I thought of, never before had I found, a more perfect explanation for what it was than this:

She was,
to him,
His Estella,
Lovely
And terrible
All the same.

 

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As a Lady of Bug Size

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If I was much, much reduced in height
by some magical means,
Becoming, perhaps, a lady of bug size,

I would call these strange things trees—
The yellow mushrooms, I mean—

And know the shade of the leaves
High up in the canopy,

Twinkling with quick winks of sunlight
blinking with the breeze,
As the darkness of a starry evening sky.

 
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