xii. the divine miss T

when my cat, who is still an adolescent, jumps onto my bed, she emits a tiny squeak that is her form of announcement and greeting. twyla brings her striking face--half black, half orange--inches from mine and begins to crawl feverishly around my head, with her weighted paws pulling my hair. i don't mind. i want only for her affection to continue into ripe old age. then my little girl will nuzzle her head into my palm, tasting my fingers, purring beneath her mottled calico stripes. it won't take long for her to settle somewhere near my shoulders, nestled into my torso, and i sense the pulsating purring resonating inside of me, akin to my own heartbeat. margaret atwood wrote in oryx and crake that a cat's purring can heal. i am certain of this. twyla heals me each day, sensing my own wounds and internal scars as an extension of her own being. my worst nightmare included a scenario where i had lost her, and almost found her over and over again, only to discover a cat who was almost like her but with different marking--a white circle around one eye, or a face with too much orange. my little girl was lost to me. disappearance is almost like dying, but with more ambiguity.

throughout my life, i have known cats named madeline, cotton, mim, isadora, effie, and paul. before i had a cat, i spent years spouting bullshit about not believing in happiness, but i finally recognized that wholeness is not perfection. i try to lighten up and offer what little care i can, to myself and the tiniest of beings. my happiest moments are when surrounded by furry twyla and dearest R, all of us nestled on the couch, wanting for nothing. in the dead of winter, i lead a charmed life. with books, purring, the flicker of tea candles, and touch, i cannot want for more.