It was a three cat morning – the grey one with tortoiseshell markings on its feet in the minimalist art gallery window. The tabby we often find in the eclectic, what-ARE-those-ceramic-sculpture-things gallery, whose windows face the morning sun and are stuffed with year round blooming geraniums. And I can’t even remember the third, only having the thought that it was a three cat morning and that had to mean something good.
Junior Jr’s vocabulary is minimalist – for example, he uses “on!” to mean on, in, around, under, ‘turn it on’, ‘NO LET ME turn it on’, and ‘I want some of that snack in the cabinet!!’ But almost since the day he learned “UH OH” he has said “kee ka” for kitty cat which is now just shortened to “kee”, for efficiency. And he pants endearingly, for dogs, cats, and the badger on the logo of his diaper cream, usually just before he gets that sneaky look on his face and consumes a tasty lick of said diaper cream.
The cats on our mile long walk to school give him great joy, and I am struck by the simplicity brought to my life by seeing the world through a child’s eyes. Our morning walk, snow or shine, is my reward for surviving leaving the house. Today I had to go back four different times, for things forgotten. A stuffed puppy dog. An apple. My other other gloves, because 28 degree mornings are still so cold. But once we get moving, everyone settles in. Junior Jr kicks happily at my hips in the backpack, often eating an apple and smearing it into my hair less than you would expect. Junior, in the stroller wrapped in a thick quilt, is uncharacteristically still and quiet on his way to school; this pleases me greatly. His posture, blanket, and tendency to make demands of the driver also cause me to giggle and refer to him as FDR.
I thought I’d be in Paris by now, bubbled up from my subconscious on a recent walk. But I realized it was okay. I had a highly privileged childhood, living in many countries and traveling casually and easily all over the world. I assumed my adulthood would be as fluid, mobile, culture rich. I planned, without really making any plans, to travel, because I thought it would just happen. But instead, I found myself growing roots. Growing deep down, way down, into the place where I landed. It may not be permanent, but for now, it’s what I have.
The cats in art galleries on my city street in the blooming springtime are almost like Paris. And for all the ways they clearly aren’t, I am, when I remember to choose to be, at rest.
Post 21 of 40 Daze: A Lenten Writing Practice
