no return address

i'm way too oblique for my class, but maybe someone will understand this somewhere. i'm also the only one who wrote a serious piece. i do not have the funny gene, i guess.



October 6

Dear Mr. C,

I first saw her feeding squirrels in the Garden. Everyday at 2:30pm, she was there and I would watch her from a nearby bench. She always looked so happy as the squirrels ate from her cupped hands. She would smile as she passed me, and I would nod at her over the top of my newspaper. I couldn’t wait to get to know her better, and eat from her cupped hands. I didn’t have to wait long.

She didn’t make a noise when I took her by the hand that afternoon. It was like she was expecting it. She didn’t smile but she didn’t turn away. I led her to my apartment on Marlborough Street, where Holden greeted us with a whip of his tail. He was always such a sassy feline. She smiled as soon as she saw his golden eyes. She let go of my hand, but I wasn’t afraid of her running away. I knew she would like my cats. I loved watching her fingers brush through his thick grey coat. He purred loudly, and I smiled as I watched her. Her eyes were still upset, so I nudged her gently through the door. Holden leaped from her arms.

I asked if I could get her anything, but she just nodded. I gestured for her to sit down. She fell into my zebra-striped couch as if her feet could barely hold her weight.

“I quit, sir. I quit.” This was the first time I had heard more than the coos she would give the squirrels. “I cannot be a writer. I cannot keep up with his demands.”

“Then I will keep you here. You don’t have to go back to him. You never need to see another blank computer screen or another white piece of paper in your typewriter. It ends here. You are no longer a writing whore.”

She laughed but I was quite serious. I was glad to have her company, even though she wouldn’t say another word after that. She was lost in her thoughts while Alice, Charlie and Jack fought for turns on her lap. I made her tea and sat across from her trying to read her internal dialogue through her pupils.

She traced words out on her jeans with her finger, big curly cursive words – turtle, grocery and lentils. She scratched harder each time. The red marks on her arms read: I quit. I think if she could have, she would have wanted those words tattooed on her hands, but at the same time she kept staring at the pen and paper on the coffee table. She eyed them so closely I was sure they would fly up and whirl around till they landed in her lap fighting with Felix for most comfortable chair in the house.

That night I left her sleeping on my couch, but when I woke up she was gone. She had fed the cats and brushed the Persians. The only proof of her existence was a note on the table that read, “Wisdom is acquired by experience, not just by age. I don’t need school to be a writer. I quit. Please pass this on for me.”

So sir, you will see that I’m just following her wishes. The address was to this office and I promise I didn’t hurt her. She’s just words on a page now, and I haven’t seen her since. She’s just a story.

Sincerely,


The Cat Lover
 
¶ 11:12 AM |