Porch Cats
By
It’s the fourth of July and
I’m sitting on the porch swing, a Bounce dryer sheet tucked into my shorts to keep
mosquitoes away, waiting for fireworks. The sky keeps changing—blue, grey,
silver, yellow rays of sun. Earlier it opened,
streamed rain. The movement is making me queasy.
But the cats on my porch are lying still. The black
and white kitten snore-purrs against my arm and the warm, vibrating comfort of
her makes my eyes wet. I am in need of comfort; my son doesn’t answer his cell
phone.
I keep trying to call because there’s something I want
to tell him I remember: him, riding his red-white-and-blue–streamered bicycle
in a neighborhood parade when he was eight. Even though he would make fun of
me, maybe because he would make fun of me, I want him to know I am thinking
about that day.
And then, that time-weathered moment in which I am not
sticky with sweat, I don’t have my period, I'm not annoyed at his father and
one of the other mothers doesn’t seem to be snubbing me, that perfect, shining
moment of summer bliss would hang between us, still and sparkling.
The long-haired cat is
sprawled across the porch floor on her back, legs splayed. Most cats are
graceful, it's true, but this one is not. She misses when she leaps, as often
as she lands. Sometimes I am embarrassed for her.
My son has never met this clumsy cat, nor the charismatic kitten next to me. He is acquainted with
only one of the three cats sleeping on the porch of my divorcee's cottage: the oldest, a dignified striped tabby who
mostly keeps to himself (when not pissing on a rug) and who
my boyfriend says would vote Republican.
It's been two years since he went to college and his
father and I sold our porchless, white-washed house,
and already I have two cats my son knows nothing of. Not that he cares. He
pretends to hate cats, but he was jealous of any attention I ever paid them.
Now my son is unreachable, and I have three cats on my
porch. Beautiful, composed and ridiculous. I could
have a fourth if I wanted, a fifth. But what I want is the sky to slow down.
Copyright © 2005 Maryanne Stahl