I got a kitten a few short weeks after moving in. I’ve known her name for a long time. A perfect orange plucked straight from a fruit tree in the heat of the day. My kitten, a beautiful calico, even has patches of peach fuzz to boot.
I watched as they took her from her mother, an only child, the lone wolf of a litter. She was too young, even I knew. Tiny, barely the size of my palm outstretched. I watched, as the kids scared the Mom off, thwarting any possible rescue attempts. Days later when worrying to a friend, she told me that even if I returned the kitten, her mother might have forgotten her scent already, disregard the child she once had. Suntala was tense and afraid at first - but above all she’s curious. Ever since scooting her into her new home, my house, she’s never been one to hide in corners or shy away from my presence. I continued to worry about her size, her teeth, her might, for weeks. At the same time, I was mean. Despite her objectively being the cutest kitten alive, with abundant charm and the sweetest sleeping positions known to man, I felt angry. She, my sole companion, during a restless time of boredom and feeling unfit. Tala is greedy around meal times (rightly so, let’s not forget) and I would not at all kindly toss her out of the room, out of the house, while I cooked. Toss. As in throw a small little angel of a thing. Swift as my anger, toss. And then my anger would shift, shift, shift again. To be someone who didn’t want to hurt animals on a moral high ground, how could I, how dare I, be so cruel to the one animal closest to me? I continued to be mad and toss toss toss for a few more days, maybe even for another week or two. I don’t toss her anymore. By my best guess she’s around two months old now, maybe even two and a half. I let some of my anger go. Some, not all, I’ll never be perfect alright. I stopped letting myself feel unwelcome here. I’m trying not to be so hard on myself. I’m trying to make friends. I’m letting myself off the hook. Breaking the news gently to myself. I’m not going to be good at this. Not for a long time, anyway. I’m an introverted person doing an extremely extroverted job. Leaving the house is a hard, almost insurmountable mountain most days. The weight of it all feels like the exact opposite of my palm-sized two month old. Finally there came moments, now even full days, when I am able to put down that weight and understand this new life for what it is. I’m not here to do and be the most. I’m here to do what I can. For now, that means doing one thing everyday - just one! As for Tala, I love her and she loves me. By being kinder to myself I am able to be kinder to her. She is playful, bold, pretentious, soothing, and wild. She refuses to learn her name, as if such a thing as a word could ever tack her down. I still worry all the time, not about her growing, but about if she’ll survive. If something bigger comes and takes her, or she gets lost, or gets hurt and I’m unable to heal her. A lot of its selfish for sure, it has quickly become a thought reel of ‘How will I do this without her?’. Just as I think it, I also know she worries about me too. Will I keep coming home? Will I make it through? In my hope above all hopes, we’ll make it through together, her looking out for me and I for her.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Author's note:Hi, I'm Helen. Welcome to Lifted ~ I write to lift myself up. Archives
March 2021
|