I need the world to know.
I need the galaxies to know.
But most of all, bewildered sprite, I need you to know.
I love you, Hoopla Green. I love you, and I worry that you don’t know.
You prioritize wisdom over knowledge. You follow truth on the June breeze. You make yourself the moon in the solarium sun, born to reflect great light. Like all the strongest souls, you are content to be eclipsed by a love you cannot understand.
You find trivia tiresome, and you would prefer not to be a trending topic. You consult oracles, not Wikipedia. Your entrance music is wind chimes, not DJ Khaled.
Actually, you prefer not to “make an entrance” at all. You don’t need anyone to know where you are. You know who you are.
But do you know I love you, Hoopla Green?
You were Suite G’s graceful secret, the new moon shy behind Charles‘ full grin and Boba‘s crazed crescent. They swung from stars and chandeliers. You communed with your cubby and your ideas.
“Hoopla is very shy,” we cautioned visitors.
“We’re working with Hoopla,” we explained.
But did we know you were working on us, Hoopla Green?
Unlike the 90-second cats, the Easy Mac cheery and cheesy in our laps, you hold the wisdom of time. You came from Vermont as mellow as syrup, as patient as everything worthwhile. You would watch us with those silent movie-star eyes, watch the world without subtitles. You would trust a great mercy to be patient with you.
You would teach us to be patient with each other.
But do you know I love you, Hoopla Green?
The last two weeks, you have crossed the threshold from your cubby as though it were the astral plane. Now you taste the air and dare exposure. You can live with being beheld, if it means you can hold the marigold breeze and the holy birdsong. You are fully alive. You are courage in black-tie fur.
When I first saw you in your solarium, astonished by oxygen under all those orange windows, you were breathtaking. You took each breath as a revelation, took your steps like invitations, and then took one look at me and froze.
You did not know that I love you, Hoopla Green.
You could not know that I talk about you, tout you, scribble poems for you. I am openly besotted with Suite G in its entirety, daydreaming of ways to make you all mine. I bubble over for Boba and ache to curl up with my books and my Espresso. But you, Hoopla Green, have the tender grass of my heart, the young meadow where we are both still kittens.
Do you know that I want you to be my Hoopla, a sooty circle of peace curled in my window? You are an anchor of the eternal, solid and lasting. A creature who knows her own worth is timeless. A creature who knows she is loved is fearless.
We are both still working on that second one, aren’t we?
The world moves so fast, Hoopla Green. Wildfires in Ontario roar down the latitudes, filling our Jersey sky with haze that feels like the end of days. Dams break and dreams break and we think we can solve our sorrows by moving at a breakneck pace. Screenshots and society make us feel small.
And there you are, eight pounds of honesty, an untouchable cat with unshakable dignity. You are exactly what you need to be.
Do you know that I love you, Hoopla Green?
Curled like a crescent in your cubby, you are contentment that need not ask permission. Galloping the solarium, illuminated by love, you are the merriest moonchild. When you think we don’t see, you forget yourself in the joy that remembers the most feral cats. We cannot touch you, and we cannot glimpse the secrets you tell the sun. They are not meant for us.
But you are meant to be loved, Hoopla Green, in whatever ways you can receive it. Do you know I love you, Hoopla Green?
When we lock eyes now, you stand still. You read my poetry.
Do you know I love you, Hoopla Green?
Do you know that even if I never pet your fur, I will let you read my diary? Gentle child, wise angel, I trust you. New moon, tuxedo seraph, you can trust the skies you’re under.
We know you’re growing happier, Hoopla Green, and we high-five each other when you gallop. We can’t aspire to your wisdom, but we desire your peace.
All Tabby’s Place wants is for you to feel your worth. All Tabby’s Place needs is for you to know what we know.
We love you, Hoopla Green.