As a girl, I used to deny that I had maternal instincts. I did not think babies were cute. I did not play with doll versions of them. I did not dream of the day when I would have a real one of my own.
But you know what I did love?
When my cat would come and sit on my lap.
When one of my cats, like Tink or Helen, would curl up on my lap, I would close my eyes and be still. For once, an end to the thinking and the doing. I would put my hand on this surprisingly heavy little being and go with them to someplace in between this world and the next.
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My baby girl was born nine winters ago. In the early dark, I would lower myself into the rocking chair with her. Heavy for her size and very still she was, and warm. I would rock her for hours. And drift. Gloomy as it was, the room seemed unreal--just like a summer day could fade away, years ago, when one of my small emissaries came. From a future I had so misunderstood.
