For the Love of…

Mid-July in Maine. Different than ever before. It never got that hot in Maine, as far as she knew.

The day had been long and very, very hot. Stifling. She had felt like she was melting, and maybe she had been, especially around noon. Rivers of salt and sweat, transparent rivulets furrowing her face. Swirls of auburn no longer moving in the breeze that did nothing to alleviate the mercury’s ascent. A sea of clacking leaves jostling for shade and finding none. A body struggling to remain inside its poor skin, fearing the worst. Hot, tortured hours turning minutes into impossibility.

Not in Maine. This never happened in Maine. Not in the land of the Northern Snow. Yet it had, and not a drop of ice remained. Luckily, the temperature was temporary. Respite began to accumulate in the nooks where hydrangeas grew and cardinals swung their wings beside the generous feeders that swung from branches. This too would pass. She knew, and was patient.

The desert of the daytime hours gradually shifted its blazing sands into a warm summer evening with a full moon. The oven was forgotten and was unlikely to return for another century. She breathed slowly, fully, and knew it was time for a walk toward the water. Her choices were the river or the sea. The white penny among the cottony strands in the sky would follow her, whichever she chose. It was time.

It was time because everything the air held was magnetic. It was no longer liquid but still felt warm, except the warmth no longer burned. She knew her scorched self was gone and had left a burned-out space where something else had come to nest. It was a something that insisted she was about to see something or meet someone important. The moon, that shiny penny, was proof. It made her feel rich. It felt like it belonged to her. It did. 

And she belonged to the moon. She wasn’t Robert Graves’ White Goddess, which was far too mythical and mythological and unoriginal. Still, it was above her, it was warm, not cold, as white can sometimes be, and it was watching, as if something might happen. Maybe it had gathered the degrees of the day together and would show her the strength of warmth.

Did she really think that?

Full moon. Walking overhead, but not distant. Light painting the air, sculpting molecules, drawing her, drawing her to it. This was what the magnetism of invisible atmosphere felt like. Something was going to happen and it was right.

Where was she supposed to go? The water ran in the river like it had run down her face. It ran into the mica sand and licked the gleam from the shore that belonged to the inlet of the Atlantic. She was thirsty for both, but the path to the river was quieter and so she chose the path, or road, she had often taken. Not the other one, the one Frost, also Robert, had preferred. It was an easier route, and it was, after all, still so warm.

Feelings accompanied her, but did not speak. Conversation with them would have been unbearable. Distraction fatal. Silence held her hand as if they both had magnets below the wrist. Clinging together comfortably, they reached the high bank of the river and stood by a stand of birches, hollowing out the the once-hot air to allow for the rest, for whatever was supposed to come.

A white cat can change color and shape and was there by the birches’ scrolling bark. Watching, like the moonpenny. She thought the cat might belong to her. All she needed to do was listen, the way the silence was listening. There were things she needed to know. The words, if there were any in the cat, could only be heard if she used her thoughts to hear them. 

The white cat looks at her slowly and blinks. This is the way a feline tells you it loves you. She sees something unfamiliar but not mysterious. (That would also be unoriginal.) This is why the white turns blue and purrs but makes no words, just offers its eyes, which is perhaps all she needs. In the evening shadows, warmer than they’ve ever been in Maine, it is hard to discern blue from white. There’s a saying in Spanish that comes to mind and it might explain why this happens beside the river: De noche todos los gatos son pardos. Pardos, or blue, or something else.

The cat with its probable words follows her home and curls up on her bed as if she (the cat) had always slept there. She is like a glass of warm milk, as comforting as that. She even chooses her spot on the bed wisely. She fits perfectly. They might be twins. 

Name? She knows the blue-white cat needs one, but its quiet suggests that one still needs to be chosen. She worries that the name she chooses for the cat might not be understood by everybody, but feels she cannot censure the suggestions brought to her by the heat of the evening. It might be best to create a list and even sleep on it…

Neve. The first name that comes to mind because the cat is, after all, white. At least some of the time. Neve, after all, means snow. Is snow possible on such a warm night? That’s not easy to say. 

Faísca. A word with three syllables. Faíscas are the sparks that leap about above a bonfire, like stars tumble around in the night sky. They require flames, which might be too hot on a night like this. That doesn’t detract from their beauty. Will they bring warmth or will they set the bed on fire? It might not matter, since the word is so tempting, its syllables so beautiful.

Poem. It’s possible nobody ever named a pet that, but there’s no reason not to. Poems are full of words they themselves never speak. She will have to speak the poem if she names the cat this. She could also choose Poema, which is pretty much the same thing. She thinks her life may not be a novel (or novela), but it might be a poem. If the cat is a Poem, it might feel like her twin and could be a good thing.

Mar. Not English, but close enough. It’s appropriate for a place on the coast, too. Maritime. Marine life. It’s a very short word, though, and the cat might prefer something more.

Ocean. That’s the same as Mar. it needs no further explanation.

Cantiga. There is no good equivalent in English, but it’s easy to pronounce. A cantiga is a medieval song composed by a troubador. It has a long history and those who have read and heard cantigas never forget them. A nice thought: never forget.

Memory. The main concern, if the cat is to have this name, is that the memory not be sad. A sad cat or person is just that: sad. A sad memory can create as much unhappiness as a day with skin-melting heat. Remembering can be a wonderful thing, but it can also be a catch-22. A paradox or catch-22 can be dangerous. This option needs careful consideration. 

Verb. Funny little word, but one that opens many possibilities. A cat named Verb might be full of actions like jumping, sleeping, rubbing up against you. It would need to be an active cat, so Verb might fit or it might not. Would people think it too silly?

Soidade. Another precious word, meaning longing or nostalgia. The animal that is taking up residence in her space ought not make her sad. She is not convinced it’s a good idea to join her own life with nostalgia. She doesn’t want to be missing someone all the time. This option is tricky.

Rain, sweet Rain. This might work. Rain quenches thirst, fills bodies of water with water, makes life possible. It can put an end to the feeling of being parched. She would prefer not to have another day like today, and rain would be a relief.

The name words keep appearing, like fireflies, raindrops, or hot sun rays. The cat, whatever color it is at the moment, has curled up on her bed, waiting to purr her to sleep. Waiting to be her.

What does she want to call herself?

She needs to sleep on that, paw in her hand, words tumbling into place, defining her on this night with a full penny moon.