hey i wrote a story! i think we should call it, KITTEN IN SPACE. this is my first official story.
I had hoped I would never live to see the day. There is that feeling of familiarity. I remember my mother. She is in the new addition they put on the house, sitting in a wicker chair. The wicker is the color of my desk. There is a cushion on the wicker chair with flowers on it. Some kind of rose pattern, or dahlias. She is holding a kitten in the palm of one hand, with the other hand cupped to give it shelter during this time when it is more fetal than alive; more chick than kitten.
“He makes the c-shape, too,” she says.
“He makes a comma,” I imagine her to say.
I tried to hold a kitten up here once. It made me feel braver on the trip up, to have a living thing—something to watch over, even though it didn’t need me when it slept, which was most of the ride. It died within a couple of hours, but not from the pressure or oxygen as one would figure. I think the formula was too thick. It took those breaths she always called “angular” instead of “agonal,” and the kitten’s head on its crunchy little stalk lolled away from my neck.
I used to climb right from some surface dream back into my head, and wish that the downstairs noises were those of my mother—absently wiping the kitchen counter with a graying dishrag—not the dogs being fed in our rental apartment, our adulthood. The thought of her on summer vacation, making coffee and reading books by the great naturalists, would make me sick with despair.
Up here you can’t hear anything, of course. You wouldn’t believe how little surprise there is, and that’s the gore. It’s everything you’ve ever imagined it to be. It’s velvet, unraveling edgeless; to some, surely wondrous.