Parenting is a Book You Can’t Put Down

I woke cold and moved closer beneath the covers to him, wrapping my arms around his chest and tucking my knees into the back of his folded legs like the puzzle we’re good at completing. A friend of ours was in disbelief recently, when he learned my husband has never been in the “doghouse” having to sleep on the couch at my command.  I thought it surprising that one would think I was the type to send a man to the couch. I’m not. I’m more likely to take the couch myself and make a huge drama out of the inconvenience. Even then, dragging myself to the couch has probably only happened a handful of times and usually corresponds with me not being on my antidepressants.


I don’t usually shower in the morning and so I asked him whether he wanted to go first or second.

“I’ll go,” he said and tossed off the covers, revealing those familiar black briefs.

I rolled onto my ugly I-had-babies-stomach and sprawled his side to doze and wait for the signaling of my turn – when the water is turned off. As if on cue, I felt my son toss his special blanket named G.G. onto our bed as he pulled himself up by a handful of bed sheet. I pretended I was sleeping until he settled down, and then I opened my eyes and see his bright morning smile. He had been staring at me, waiting for me to wake up. Waking to his anticipating face is an adorable thing to have happen.

I convinced myself out of my memory foam topped bed knowing that if I lounged around too long I would end up being rushed to get all three kids and myself ready for our destinations: daycare, school, and work.

Opening the door of our single-family bathroom I saw Ryan finishing up his routine: 1) clean ears, 2) put deodorant on, and 3) put bed-head styling product in hair. I stepped out of my panties and felt his eyes on my ass as I pulled the shower curtain aside and turned the water on, but when I looked around to catch him, he was really just looking in the mirror fixing his hair. Sigh.

The act of showering released me from last night’s dream of people no longer important and places that occasionally haunt me. I use a brand of soap I discovered because it smelled like the brand my Massachusetts grandparents regularly had in their upstairs shower. It’s not that I know their preferred brand, I don’t; rather, I once purchased Yardley because it seemed more natural than Dove and when I used it, the scent carried me to them and I’ve loved it ever since.

One of my 11-year-old daughters walked into the bathroom without a knock, and stated matter of fact, “Good morning, I need to pee.” She was quick, didn’t flush, and probably didn’t wipe.

Then, just as the room just became private again, I felt the ever-annoying chill creeping into the shower. She had forgotten to close the door behind her. From the inside of a narrow blue bathroom, over the noise of children’s bickering, and husband’s green smoothy being blended, I screamed, “Close the door, you’re letting the hot air out!”

We were five in an 1100 square foot home with a single bathroom.

The next day we woke in a frenzy of: “Get this,” “Do that!”, “Why aren’t you listening? Go brush your teeth!”, “Do I have to ask again?”

I packed our lunches and comfort items, and the children prepared themselves for the family mini adventure. Allison was calm and waiting, wearing the school sweatshirt that she mixed up last year with another student but accepted ownership easily enough.

Luca was nervous and asked safety-related questions while holding her stuffed animals Salsa and Rosetta.

John grabbed his pillow, GG, and a change of clothes which were reviewed, deemed unsatisfactory, and reselected by Dad who stuffed the upgrades into a daypack that also contained swimsuits and a towel. I, like my both my daughters, focusing on comfort items: my black fleece hoodie and with the book I was reading at the time, The Goldfinch  by Donna Tart.

We locked ourselves into our seat belts. An hour later we arrived at Staircase in the Olympic National Forest where we excitedly piled out wearing our smartly prepared backpacks, and smiles as we began our three mile walk toward Uncle J., Aunt D. and the cousins who waited for us to swim with them. The girls walked on triumphant and brave as though at home they were not afraid of everything.

We arrived. The kids stood on the stone covered beach looking at a green lagoon. To their left and right, swift rapids. I watched and remembered my childhood, my feeling of love for the forest and water.

For whatever reason, altitude or dehydration, or my general-out-of-shape-ness, I felt a mild headache coming on. It would eclipse that evening on the hike back to the car after  a full day of children playing on the river’s edge – tossing the rock game, watching their father cannonball into ice-cold water over and over again – that they wore out and became whiny. All five of the children, including cousins, were beautiful at every moment of the afternoon.

sunruse, rainier 8x12

After a day of near perfection, we began to hike back and turned right instead to take suspension bridge. The alternative path had a definite lean, or more like, a 90-degree incline all the way back to the van. It brought my headache to its peak.

Allison began to mope. My head began to blare. We each suffer along the way and I wanted to suffer in peace, but I had Allison beside me complaining: “I’m tired, my legs hurt, I’m scared.”

Pounding head, whining kid, steep incline. IMPATIENCE. I fussed at her,“Quit crying and complaining or I won’t hold your hand anymore.”

Then she did it. She complained one more time and I let go of her hand, shaking it out of mine, and kept climbing without a glance back. She chased after me, tears shedding, “Mom, I’m scared.”

I cut her with my words, “I warned you if you complained again I’d let go of your hand. Walk beside me if you’re scared.” Dad was up ahead carrying the other whiny child, our son, on his shoulders. Moments like this are hard. Not the hike, but the responsibility of being a parent.

Earlier at the beach, I had also lost my patience with her. “God-damn-it Allison! Can’t you just listen to me?” I was reacting to her having poop, human poop, her human poop smeared on the bottom of her shoe from her having stepped in it after her earlier shit in the woods.

I fussed because I had spent the previous few minutes asking her, discretely, to come with me to clean her shoe. She was near the others who were eating and I wanted her to remove herself to clean her shoe, but instead, she resisted and wouldn’t get up. She wanted her shoe cleaned there, she was stubborn. That is when I fussed for her to get up “right now or she’d be punished.” Leading to my shouting like mad women, I’m sure.

Now when I reflect on my impatience that day, I feel remorse. I feel like I was being a bad parent. I get my impatience from my own parents who were also quick to react.

Today my mother is a different woman than the one who raised me. Consider yourself lucky if you still have your mother, consider yourself in a lottery winner if your mother is still your mother. Some of us have a different model whose ability to love us is equal to her ability to blame us for being such a terrible family. Mental illness has made my mother more calculating. She demands attention in obsessive overtures and creative threats. Guilt is her poison. She lays it on thick, thick like a walrus sitting on an ice cube and I’m the ice cube. To be the daughter of my mother means receiving poetic and sad messages that conclude with sentences such as this one: “Please pray for me or I won’t be real thrilled about saying a prayer for you when I walk into heaven.”

Last week, in fact, she emailed me to say she had to go to confession because she said she hated me and my sisters. I kid you not, she wrote, “I’m sorry for saying I hated you, pure hate.” I’m so used to her manipulating (and poetic) sentences that I laughed out loud when I read it. I showed my husband. “Look, she had to add that comma to clarify the level of hate she felt for me, pure hate.” But wait, there was more, in the final sentence she declared that since she apologized, I should also.

When we drove home and while my son sleeps, I reflected. I thought of how getting outside is pleasant. We had let the noise of our regular life fade and felt happy. For most of the day at the river, there were no squabbles or complaints. It was not until that tired walk home… instead of letting Allison struggle on her own, because of my own impatience, I should have held her hand, even though she was whining. I will apologize to her and love on her later. I felt for the daughter who I may have damaged.

In our lives, my children listen to their daddy playing guitar at night and my quiet typing at an IKEA desk with aging MAC. My children don’t realize their household is unique. Some kids grow up to their parents watching TV from dusk till dawn. My own parents didn’t allow this and I’m thankful for that. My dad worked graveyard shifts at oil refineries and sleep in basements with earplugs and bedrooms lined in tinfoil. We were encouraged to be outside.

Later on, it was my turn to tuck in the children. My son is the youngest, so I tucked him in first. He asked if he could take his toy to bed with him and I nodded yes. He went on to bed with not one, but five, toys in his hands and a smile. I believe letting kids have their way on the insignificant things helps encourage independence.

The walk. My impatience. My guilt.

Next I go to Luca who said to me she was “very afraid.” She and I had spoken earlier in the week about her fears of illness every time someone sneezes, or coughs, or blows their nose. For the past week, she had been checking her own temperature around bedtime.

“Am I sick?” she asked in earnest.

“No sweetie, you’re not sick.” I rubbed her hair back from her forehead. The light of the bathroom spread across the floor. The door was ajar for her want for safety.

“How do you know?” She asked. “Do I have a fever?” She asked again.

“No baby, you’re not sick. You’re fine.”

“But my stomach hurts,” She said.

“Even if your stomach hurts, you’re not sick. You are okay. I promise.”

“But,” she said. “John just had a stomach bug last week and vomited ten dry heaves. Can you take my temperature?”

“Yes, but with my hand.” I touch her forehead. She is not hot. Not even close. “Nope, no fever. You’re not hot.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because your skin isn’t hot and you’re eyes aren’t sick-looking. Even if you did get what your brother had, which you won’t because you were not exposed to him, then you would get sick and you would get better and be okay.”

“Okay.” She succumbed and rolled onto her pillow tucking her hands underneath.

Meanwhile, my son was out of bed playing in the laundry basket. I heard him narrating his own story, “… cut the tree down.” He pretended to saw a laundry basket with the Black-n-Decker toy chainsaw, his favorite toy this week. “John, get back in bed.” I scolded.

I went to Allison. Time to apologize. Time to make right where I went wrong.

~ End


Part of a story I’m working on

Some flash fiction for you (my fav. written paragraph tonight): The red-haired and pimply boy who (obviously) listened to Metallica and Tool was in one of her classes. She learned later about his attic for a bedroom when she would watch him do pushups while listening to heavy metal. His five o’clock shadow was trashy like his black washed out jeans. When he got a new shirt, it was known because its color was so crisp compared to the rest of his faded wardrobe. He wore his new heavy metal t-shirt like his mom didn’t pick it up at a discount store only yesterday. His mama loved him dearly though. She said “dumbass little girls” like Jessica weren’t good enough for him. It was as if Jason’s mother knew the two would end up pregnant in a matter of months.


An Interview about Love & Loss

princess and rabbit

What do you want from me?
I want to write.
What do you want to write about?
Love and Loss.
Love and Loss are acquaintances of mine.
How do you know them?
I am Hope, Love’s sister.

What is love like?
She is contentious, friendly most of the time even on a bad day. Love has features that are adorable. Her cheeks are soft and eyes are responsive. She is aware of the needs of others. She’d grab a chair and bring it into a crowded room for a stranger who needs a place to sit. She enjoys being cherished, though, which I suppose is a weakness. She is nice and needs niceness like a fire burning up paper.

What is Loss like?
Loss is miserable. Ultimately wants to forget so that he doesn’t have to feel miserable anymore. He spends his time on opiates listening to music on the crystal radio. He has no mother, no father, and no family to speak of. He works on a neighbor’s farm and picks potatoes.

And Love, does she know Loss?
Not yet, they will meet at the end of the story though. The state of misery that Loss feels keeps him for seeing that Love is out there, but lucky for him Love sees him.

Love has a mother that is more interested in the flowers in the garden than the light that children bring into the home. Love’s mother is irritable and disinterested and her father works at a factory supervising women making men’s dress shirts. Love spends her childhood waiting for bigger things, imagining foreign worlds, dreaming of the day she’ll meet Amelia Earhart in person.

Why is Loss miserable?
Loss is miserable because he hasn’t learned how not to be. He has had no role models and not traveled elsewhere. His vision is limited to the walls he constructs around himself. His selfishness is unknown to him. He believes the degrading way he treats himself and others is because he, and they, deserve it. He lacks a soothingness necessary for learning a better self.

How will Loss let Love come into his life?
Loss has childhood memories of his Grandfather who was a carpenter and worked in big beautiful mansions. His grandfather was very gentle and treated Loss with respect. When Loss was in the room with his Grandpa, his Grandpa was aware of him and sent him praise. Events must unfold in order for Loss to crack the container he built around himself, without his misery there would be no chance for improvement.

Is Loss a bad guy?
Not at all, he is just misunderstood and always alone.

What events crack the seed of Loss?
Rumors of Love’s interest came first; like a whisper. Then a child appeared, seven-years-old or so. The seven-year-old was Love’s younger sister Hope.

Hope wore a dirty dress with faded flowers. Loss was in a second story apartment complex, lying in bed, listening to the birds outside the open window.

Hope was tossing stones from a street corner into a trashcan. Each stone made enough noise to cause Loss to look out the window, when the pane shattered beside him.

The Easter Tradition


Photo by LC Stair

My daughter is cleverer than I am. She coined the family term, “Easter Tradition.” An Easter Tradition is one where a child brings home the stomach bug. Then, everyone succumbs, a few days apart from one another, to shitting and vomiting to the extent of exhaustion and begging for mercy. It’s happened to our family, in our quaint house with one bathroom, for a few springtimes now. Having one bathroom certainly encourages the quick and tumultuous virus to spread like crabs in a drug-dealer’s trailer.

After the first victim, we religiously beach light switches, doorknobs, refrigerator handles, and wash our hands until they begin to look parched. My husband and I silently wait, who will be next? Dry heaves and stomach cramps be damned, will I wake at 2 in the morning or will I beat the odds?

The first time, on a night before Easter, both daughters got sick within an hour of one another. “Save the baby,” I said and called the in-laws in from their camper, which was parked in our backyard for the season. I realized we had the Rotavirus, or worse, the Norovirus in our house. I tied a t-shirt tied across my face like cowboy’s bandana in 1890 Tombstone, Arizona. My mother-in-law took our three-month-old son into the camper and laughed sweetly at our predicament.

While M was vomiting all over the toilet, S cried, humiliated by having to say it, “I have to poop!” I stopped rubbing M’s back and snatched the trashcan from its place. There was no other choice, I told S, “Shit in the trashcan.” She leaned back as though she understood her task. Squatting low, and appearing on target, she missed altogether and her body spew a brown muddiness all across the bathroom wall where it splashed like chocolate milk.

Because I’m inclined to research, I had read all about these viruses on the CDC’s website. I can tell you it’s bleach that kills the virus, and that the virus holder is contagious for a two to three days after they’ve recovered. Thus, my husband and I know the absolute importance of not getting either the shit or vomit in our eyes and mouths and noses.

A few minutes later, still wearing my fashioned facemask having just cleaned up the vomit from the toilet and shit on the wall, we began to make beds for them on the floor nearest the bathroom. He made one pallet and I the other, each of us unfurling blankets. As my hand went up to unfurl, his body came down to adjust – we touched one another – my hand, which had not yet been washed, met his face on the mouth. We instantly knew he would become the next victim of the Easter tradition. I started laughing, “I’m so sorry! That sucks. I’m so sorry!” (He did not laugh.)

Two days later he vomited and shit throughout the night. My son and I made it through unscathed. My in-laws did not; the stomach bug took them to the depths of hell in a 26-foot 5th wheel. They didn’t come out for a few days.

This year must have been the lesser virus because the shitting and vomiting were varied and not as detrimental. So far our nephew, my husband, and my son have had their turns. My in-laws might be next because my son became sick at their house (sorry for that!). Today is Easter, and each moment the remaining of us wait, crossing our fingers, washing out hands, hoping to avoid the Easter tradition.

The Little Red Button and the Cat

My first short story was inspired by an NPR writing contest where the story submitted had to contain the following words: button, cat, and city or some shit (I can’t remember the third).

I wrote a story not intending it to be a children’s story and I’m not sure it is, but, my daughters loved it and each declared it favorite. A reviewer of it for a literary magazine submission called it lovely, said he was engaged throughout, and wrote, “…it’s the greatest strength was also its greatest weakness – sentimentality.”

It was the first feedback I had received about my first ever attempt at fiction. I felt crushed. The story stopped. I gave up on it; it’s probably six years old by now. Recently, though, I reopened it and thought to myself, I still like it and so do my children, and even my good friend Marie, so screw literary magazines – I’ll just put it out in the universe.

So children’s story, or no; overly sentimental or no – I only hope someone feel’s lost in a good story when they read it.

So without further ado, I give you the story no one wants to publish, but I like it so what does that matter (note: After reading it, I recognized grammatical errors and the rushed feeling it has – perhaps I’ll clean it up – but probably not):



The little red sewing button had been glued to the frame of a 1930′s telephone nook since 1963. The other objects around her accused her of a variety of unwelcome behaviors, including, being an atheist and acting quintessential. In truth, she was used to being stuck to the wall but wanted more. She had too many years of loss and isolation that brought her to question the purpose of living within the confines of an apartment. She dreamed of being lucky enough to be sewn on the button-up, or jacket of a person who’d go in and out where she’d travel, and it would bliss. But like her siblings before her, she felt her time was nearing. Her solitude broke when the tall woman came home, placed her keys on the shelf of the nook, as usual, and bent down to release a fuzzy black kitten. The woman referred to it as Lucky-the-Cat.

Many of the other apartment items felt the kitten was crude and messy. Not Red, though, Red enjoyed him. The pillow and sofa hated when Lucky cleaned himself on them, and the rug became unraveled when Lucky played at its corners. Red was amused, though. Other than the ceiling and door fixtures, Red had more apartment history than the rest of inhabitants. For as long as she could remember, she was part of an extensive art project where a hundred or so colorful buttons were glued around the framing of the apartment’s telephone nook. They were an artistic sentiment that tenants left on the wall. Time passed and only Red remained. Next to her were traces of spotty and worn glue that reminded her of her former life with her button family.

Red was about the diameter of a dime with wearing down glue between her four symmetrical holes. When she listened to the rest of the objects chit-chatting about what ought, or not ought to be, it became clear that she was not like many of them. She voiced her opinions but often felt the other inhabitants hesitate after hearing them. The traditional pieces, like the refrigerator and the stove, felt weary of listening to her because she talked about change. The newer tenants, with their plastics and polyesters, like the sofa table lamps, were uncomfortable getting involved. An ivy plant crept to the window just to tell the books pressed against a pane to give no mind to Red. Red, the ivy claimed, was missing purpose and was an apartment annoyance.

Like Red, Lucky also felt alone. Lucky thought of his mother and wished to show to her his adult cat teeth and how tall he was. She would be so proud. More than anything, though, Lucky yearned for freedom from the stuffy apartment, he wanted a life outside. In a garden like where he was born, where a cat could dream in a dense lawn or sing in the undergrowth with an orchestra of crickets.

He threatened birds from the glass of the fourth story window, but he could not feel the joy of a winning pounce, and in the end, the birds mocked him. His disappointment with apartment living insulted most everyone but never Red. They became friends immediately, united by a longing for new things. As Lucky clowned around with the frills of the vintage high-back chair, Red laughed and at the recoiling and uptight furniture who labeled the cat a terrorist.

One day they were commiserating on the staleness of the apartment and the curmudgeon within it and agreed to escape. Lucky used his playful demeanor and jumped up at Red to loosen her until she fell free from the wall. She felt movement for the first time and made herself travel round, rolling along across the living room. When she stopped spinning and fell over, she looked up at where she had spent her lifetime, up until now, and saw four spotted-crusts of glue. The art project was no more.

Their escape came when their tall woman opened the front door to take out the trash. On the same time of every Thursday morning, she’d propped open the door with her foot and she reached back for her house keys, nearly forgetting them, again. The ceiling light flickered to signal the opportunity.

“The door is open,” Lucky said.

Red didn’t have a moment to say goodbye as they were dashing down a flight of stairs that went round and down at intervals of twelve steps a floor. At the bottom, a pair of double glass doors stood before them and a series of metal boxes with keyholes watched them silently. The keyholes had seen Lucky a year earlier when the tall woman brought him into the building in her arms. In unison, they whispered at his growth.

Ignoring them, he set Red down. There were many apartment doors down a long hallway.

“What now?” said Red.

“We find a way out of the building.”

Fortune was on his side, a familiar sound of a key unlocking a door brought a slice of outdoor noise. Lucky snatched Red up from the linoleum floor and hurried down the hallway toward a door with an EXIT sign nailed above it. There it was, the sunshine, revealing itself as a trouser-legged man in a pair of black polished shoes opened the door. Lucky rubbed the man’s feet as he went by.

Tall brick buildings underneath the great blue sky surrounded them and he couldn’t help but stop for a moment and stare at every part of its wonder. The air tasted different and excited him because it made him think of his mother.

Red felt as radiant as ever. She was wisdom in red. “I can’t believe we’re outside!”

Connected by a shared feeling, they craved beauty in a way that felt as lovely as the sky looked. They were excited to continue. Lucky picked her up in his teeth and placed her on the edge of a curb of a the street corner, “I want to carry you in my collar now but I’m not sure if I can get you there.” Obtrusive cars speed by and Lucky leaned into the concrete while pushing Red with his hind paw. He felt the smoothness of her never-ending side. She was helpful, despite her constant jibber-jabber, and together they got her tucked under his nylon collar.

“I’m comfortable,” Red said. She was like a child who loved rides. “Let’s find the place of your birth. Let’s find your mother! I had brothers and sisters once, as you know. We had such great laughs.”

It was very nice having a friend to care for and be cared for. As they moved further away from the apartment, he felt the weight of his engraved name and phone number dangling from his collar and wondered if his owner would miss him. She was nice to him and there were moments, before the planned escape, when he thought it might be better to stay.

Red came because she wanted anything new – something different was all that was needed to please her. There were mysterious and enormous things everywhere. She glanced up at where they had just escaped. Their apartment building had an unknown, unfathomable amount of windows. She said, “Wow, it’s in the form of a rectangle, like Refrigerator. Look! There’s our window with books and ivy plant.”

“I’m so glad we did this.”

“Are you in my collar good enough?”

“Um, yes, I’m good, ” said Red.

“Sit tight.” He leaped and landed in a run. His legs stretched and shoulders jutted— and on and on he went in a body meant for remarkable. The cars were faster and noisier than he had imagined and one turned sharp to avoid him at a crosswalk. The close call caused him to halt. Even though his heart was vibrant, he felt calm, for once.

“That was great!” Red said.

Lucky thought so too. He noticed some plastic crates and went slowly toward them, smelling his surroundings, he became aware of a presence and crouched into the opening between the crate and the brick building. There was another cat nearby. He scanned the surrounding. It was black and laying inside of a building’s first-floor window. He looked right at Lucky and flicked his tail.

“Red! There is another cat. He is all black.”

“Are there any buttons?”

“No,” Lucky said. “Not any buttons.”

“Cat,” Another voice hissed.

It was the black cat from the window. Lucky, puzzled said, “How’d ya do that?”

The black cat sat on his haunches. “Do what?”

“Come outside. We’ve only just escaped.”

The black cat said, “Who is this?”

“That’s Red, a button. She’s with me.”

“A button, no kiddin’. I’ve never heard a button speak before. Books are another story, they never stop going on and on about themselves.” He looked back toward his building. I don’t need to escape. My owner likes me to catch mice, so I’m free to go.”

Lucky wasn’t sure which surprised him most, this hunting arrangement or the freedom to go outside.

Lucky sat down. “I’m Lucky, who are you?”

“I’m Nightmare. Like I said, I am from that building.”

“Your name is Nightmare?”

“Yeah, cause I am so badass, you know?”

“I see. I’m looking for the park where I was born. It had birds’ nests in the trees and green grass that went on forever, Central Park they called it. Can you point me in the right direction.”

“Nah. There ain’t no grass around here, just concrete and asphalt. I heard once from a real nice kitty that her mother birthed her in Central Park. She said ‘birthed’ like it made her sophisticated, but she weren’t. That’s about as close to Central Park as I’ve been.” Nightmare went on talking and offering advice. He spoke of places where people threw their trash “real good finds” he called them. Red had fallen asleep while Lucky listened. “Need a place to stay for the night? You’se should keep out of da streets, those goddamn rats you know.”

Lucky felt his heart beat increasing, a feeling of unfamiliarity had him on edge. It was different. “Um, I think we’ll try to make it to the park tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Suits you. Further down the road here, cross from a Chinese restaurant with a big neon sign is a place that’s been empty a while. It’s a brick building, wid a busted up door on the side.”

Lucky thanked Nightmare and made his goodbyes. “Ready Red?” He asked. Before Red could remove the sleep from her eyes Lucky jolted forward. He stopped a few city blocks later and began to clean his hind paw when he heard the bell above a storefront door whisper about the night and its eeriness, it warned of being without shelter come nightfall. For the first time, Lucky felt fear. His curiosity came with caution or vice versa because one without the other is an unprepared fool.

They had traveled throughout the rest of the evening, dodging buses and cars, and stepping past extravagance in all manner of shapes and sizes. Red did not expect to end up on the streets, but she acknowledged she had it easy compared to Lucky, who was becoming uptight having to stay alert. She thought the park would have been closer, as did he, and so she did her best to keep his spirits up.

“When do astronauts eat?” She asked.

“I don’t know when?”

“At launch time.”

Lucky gave a short chuckle.

The night was black and the streets were lit up, yet there were still people walking and stray dogs were amuck, competing for the attention of the pedestrians walking by. Do they ever stop begging? Red wondered. She felt Lucky’s heart quickening on and off and observed a pattern of it speeding up and settling down. He was becoming more nervous the further they were from their cozy apartment He stopped to lick his paws, again.

Their pace slowed as Lucky turned off the endless sidewalk into an alley between buildings. He made a bed within a stack of collapsed cardboard boxes that were leaned against a dumpster and an abandoned baby stroller. He was miserable. The night was long and lonely, even though Red was awake and talkative for much of it.

He was tight in his neck and shoulders and longed for the sweet sturdy back of Sofa, the comfort of the subtle hum of Refrigerator, and most of all, and his owner’s massage. What might his owner be doing now, missing him? He felt on the right path, though, even with its hazards, when he thought of his mother again and the light in her eyes.

Day after day, block after city block they traveled. Avoid calamity and making good and philosophical conversations. Lucky did not tell Red that he was beginning to have nightmares during his wakeful state, but Red informed him of her constant tiredness. She said it was a tired unlike any she had ever felt before. She was glad to be with her brave friend Lucky. He was an energetic and curious cat but more than that, he was kind. Red was inspired by Lucky’s determination to find his mother. She felt as one expects when everything is right in their togetherness, even though times were difficult.

Excitement and tiredness fueled them on. It was too late to go back and everywhere there were moments of such wonder that for hours later they’d discuss it, and discuss it again.

“Hey Lucky, what did the ocean say to the beach?”


“Nothing he just waved.” Red laughed at her own cuteness. Lucky licked a paw.

By the fourth night, Lucky was cleaning himself obsessively at every stop. A lick or two as he scanned the world around him and Red noticed that his licking was causing him to have raw skin. She felt it must be his way of dealing with his nervousness. She had yet to tell him she was beginning to have blackouts. It was an occurrence happening more and more, so much so that she couldn’t remember where they were last or how they arrived at where they stood.

This time when she awoke she was tucked into the front side of Lucky’s collar facing a great and beautiful lawn. “Is this it, are we here?” she said. “The lawn, it’s so green, the trees are so tall.”

Last week seemed forever ago. An apartment lost long ago was far behind them – a lush and fresh as Lucky talked about. Even the people seemed better than they did on the congested streets, it as though they were infected with a happiness showing even in the way they moved about. Red absorbed this enthusiasm and felt rejuvenated. Lucky gathered up energy and took off on another wild sprint.

They spent the day in the warmth of the sunshine, appreciating the place and the accomplishment of being here. Lucky walked along the edges of the greenery and inquired of his mother to each bird, squirrel, and flower. “She’s a black and white cat, with white down her nose and on her forepaws. She went by the name of Gumball.” But no one knew of her. He was still hopeful.

Red was aware of an unknown force summoning her energy from her inside her. She knew she would die soon and while Lucky talked about the love for his mother, Red thought about her life in the apartment, all those years, and different people, and what stood out most were her own button siblings laughing at the knickknacks over an unforgiving dust. She was thankful for Lucky and wished she could relieve him now of his worry. She told more jokes.

Lucky leaned into a tree. He felt he would never find his mother and the last brown squirrel assured him of this. “There aren’t old cats here. The Pound comes by and gathers them up in the winter.”

He did not speak to the button for an entire day, but when he did he said he was sorry. “We were warm and we were happy. I’ve never been so cold and alone as I am today. It was for nothing.” But Red did not feel unhappy and told him so. She expressed her worry for Lucky though, who was now scrawnier and mangy-looking at his paws. Worse was seeing his sadness overcome him.

Red said, “I’ve had as much fun as this in all my life, in every choice I’ve made, even the tough ones. I’ve been able to observe the behavior and attitudes of many, but only up until now from on the wall of the apartment. I thought I would go on forever in one place. You have given me experiences that seem impossible. With your help, I’ve flown on the breeze. I’ve slept on the streets. I am most thankful for knowing and loving you.”

“If we were inside, my belly would be full and these fleas would be on some other bugger,” Lucky said.

“You’ll come to understand loss, one day. And when you do, you’ll see that you outsmarted the world because of our willingness to be alive for the moment. You’ll make an understanding of your journey further down the road, and you’ll look back and fit the pieces together. I’m afraid,though, it won’t be with me.”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

But Red was silent and did not answer.

An evening passed quietly. In the morning, Red did not move. Lucky thought her sleeping at first and he lay next to her waiting for her to awake, but after a time, she became stiff and inanimate like a simply misplaced sewing button. Years later, in his remembrance of her, he thought of love and realized that love was a word that didn’t earn its definition until it touches you.