If your goal is getting the room to agree with you, you have options.
You can command: “If you like Cheez-Its, raise your hand. Wave it in the air. Wave it as though you do not care.”
You can be coy: “Anyone think kittens are cute?”
Or, you can spew a toxic stew: “Everything is going downhill these days.”
You do not mean rolling down a hill in your backyard like we all did when we were kittens, grass-stained and giddy. Back then, gravity was the only toy we needed to turn slaphappy.
You mean the world is getting worse. You mean the good old days were better. The room knows exactly what you mean, and the room will nod its head as one unit. The room will say, “Indeed.”
The room will be sadder because you spoke.
Only a cat will be bold enough to disagree. Specifically, a cat who has seen the world’s worst.
Cora will not try to tell you that the world is getting better. Cora watches the news.
Cora will simply attempt to prove that all is not lost.
If you were an astute historian like Cora, you would know that all has never been lost. All was not lost when barbarians clobbered Constantinople. All was not lost when Smashmouth disbanded. All was not lost when the breakup, the pink slip, or the stomach virus came.
All was not lost when the glamour cat with the wizard-beard was sent on a quest that no one chooses.
In this story, Cora’s own kidneys were the vandals and Visigoths. She had just settled into a sweet new life in the Tabby’s Place lobby. She was surrounded by swoony humans, who she thought of as her grandchildren. She wore an apron of devotion that shielded her from sadness.
Then her own body spray-painted paradise.
Cora had renal disease of the direst degree. The prognosis was pungent. The pages fell out of the calendar. Cats do not live long with kidneys this cruel. Everything was going downhill.
All the humans howled like unneutered wombats: “All is lost!”
Cora waited, as grandmothers and historians do.
Cora knew that life is a scavenger hunt.
Cora let us find out for ourselves that some was found.
Time was found. When “all is lost,” time appears in coat pockets and unswept corners. When the hour is late, every minute is bejeweled. We do not need to busy ourselves breathless. We can kneel with the cat until she falls asleep on our legs, and then we can kneel a little longer. We can braid the moments until they are strong enough to hold us.
Curiosity was found. When “all is lost,” there is nothing left to lose. When “all is lost,” you realize that most fears can be convinced to wear little hats, until they are almost kind of cute. The cat with the finished kidneys began to play. She started to pretend she was the Dowager from Downton Abbey, scolding Lady Prescott and Third Footman Hips for their lack of etiquette. She started to chase neon mice and tomorrows.
The impossible was found. When “all is lost,” miracles sneak in the cat door. Kidneys “do not” get better. Renal disease does not lose the poker game. Hourglasses do not somersault in the other direction. Old cats do not get third chances.
Unless they do.
Nations do not make peace. Enemies do not split muffins and try to give each other the bigger half. Red and blue do not buy each other purple hats.
Unless they do.
Cora’s kidneys un-clenched their fists. Down the hall, Jamie’s anemia declared a truce. Poppa Lay let plural persons pet him. Petty words were forgiven in the laundry room. People leaned across the aisle to compliment opponents’ pretty eyes. The price of aerosol cheese went down. The value of a single hour shot the moon.
You can still see the moon from the bottom of the hill.
But be forewarned: you won’t get the room to agree with you if you insist things can get better.
If you are considering becoming more like Cora, you must weigh the risks.
If you are going to tell people that worst case scenarios often unravel, expect many harrumphs. It is frightening to hunt for hope.
Only the feline members of the room will concur that fear has a lot of talk, but not much game. Only the creatures with kidneys the size of marbles will roll down the hill laughing.
Cora knows that all is not lost.
Even on that day I pray is many years away, all will not be lost. There is a reason we say “Forever Loved.” Even the glummest disciples of despair betray themselves with those words. Where there has been love, loss can only be partial. Where there has been love, we will always have a safe place inside.
Seize the hour and the microphone. Cancel the meeting to hold the cat. Distribute Cheez-Its. Blast Smashmouth. Make a list of thirty things that are getting better. Keep counting. Keep writing.
You can borrow Cora’s pen.