We have not provided Oysters Rockefeller.
Fairy stories about cold pizza remain myths.
Yet Ash experiences every experience as a love letter.
Although Ash merits many adjectives of distinction (which is also the name of her Bangles tribute band), “tidy” is not among them.
She is a dandelion with extra wishes, a streak of crunchy peanut butter with a full-fat smile. She is every spark in the bonfire and every silver manatee in the ocean.
Ash sits demurely, but be not misled: the room of her life is a mess. It is strewn with love notes from breakfast to moonrise. She keeps them all in a scrapbook. She reads it to everyone who will listen.
When her person passed away, Ash was grief’s kindling. Her suitcase held not even a scrap of home. Her three housemates were adopted. Stories were pain factories. Some would stop reading entirely.
But Ash flamed voracious. The cure for story is story. The cure for dirge is love song. The cure for curse is blessing.
The Tabby’s Place ceiling rains torrential love notes.
The volunteer with long piano hands is a ballad in Ash’s ears. Skritches are sonnets. Fingers on Ash’s forehead are evidence of innocence at the heart of the universe.
The lunch before lunch and the dunch before dinner are exclamation points dotted with hearts. They get extra points for reeking of fish by-product, but Ash already rated them infinity stars for the meaning beneath the meat.
(Dumbstruck, brilliant Cookie Monster conks me upon the noggin. “Meat is meaning and meaning is meat. Philosophy 101, woman.”)
But Ash writes reviews the way comets write light.
Head-bonks from humans: 10/10. Great value. Delivered with care. Free “I love you” with every order.
Slumber marathons with soft cats: 10/10. Versatile. Perfect fit for all stripes, patches, and egos.
Tea cakes shaped like stars and crammed with poultry: 10/10. Lead me daily into Temptations. Supply evidently infinite.
She reads signs in every shy moment. They are all shaped like hearts. The love notes litter her life like snow.
The cat the color of storm is thunderstruck, her aging eyes blinking hard at all this sunshine. How could it be that a shy beluga of a tabby, demure and decaf among the boiling acrobats, should attract all this affection?
How could it be that a cat of quiet distinction, soft grey cotton among shag and calico, should find her letterbox loaded every hour?
“They love me.” She pokes Cookie Monster. “They love me!” She pokes saints and angels. “They seem incapable of stopping. I am shy as an oyster, but they love me like earth’s first pearl. How can this be?”
How could any living creature miss love letters shaped like hours?
While Ash is overcome by simple acts of kindness, most of us are underwhelmed by naked miracles. They’re everywhere, of course, underfoot and taped to the bookcases. They’re the yapping squirrels and the peanut butter sandwiches. They’re the colleague who listens and the breath that reminds you why you have lungs.
They’re the silver tabby full of years and patience, and the solarium full of frat cats.
They’re the “yes” you didn’t see coming and the “no” that is really a shield.
They did not have to be here. We forget this. We yawn over our days like stale Grape-Nuts, or textbooks written by committees. But we were never guaranteed cats or Septembers, Corn Pops or Wednesdays. The friend who looks us in the eye and the cat who turns to liquid in our lap should leave us flabbergasted.
It is all outrageous, oversized, shameless, gaudy grace. It is trying to get our attention. It is an unsealed love letter with ten thousand “P.S.”-es.
Ash understands.
Ash jots notes of her own. Purrs from her long, pewter neck say “I love you.” Sleepy emerald blinks write, “you belong.” Wiggles of her wonderful tail tell the truth: “the dream is real.”
Love notes everywhere, smudged with stew and salmon.
Notice them. Tuck a few between someone else’s hours. Bring Ash some cold pizza. Look forward to another untidy tomorrow.