Transformed

Photo by Mahdi Rezaei on Unsplash‍ ‍

A steamy summer afternoon.

Listless, I sat on the swing

that hung

from the elm tree

in front of the house,

too hot to push it into motion.

My cat lay in the dust,

listless, too,

her belly distended and knobbly.

The breeze that had blessed the morning

had slipped away to soothe

some other girl,

some other cat.

Sunlight sifted through the elm,

pressed on my skin.

It was as though nothing

would ever happen

again.

But then, it did.

Cinder’s full belly contracted,

became suddenly concave,

then relaxed again.

She staggered to her feet,

eyes round with astonishment,

and stared at me

as though I might know

what to do.

And to my own astonishment, I did.

It was time!

It was time!

It was time!

We were going to have kittens!

I made a bed in a window well,

soft with old leaves,

covered the top with boards,

and tucked Cinder inside.

Then I lay down on my belly,

head and arms hanging,

to watch,

to wait,

to help.

Cinder’s eyes never left my face.

When another contraction came,

she pressed her paws

hard into my palm. 

Had anyone ever trusted me so completely?

The contractions came in waves.

Each time my cat’s belly pulled tight,

she pressed hard, hard

against my hand,

her frightened eyes fastened

on my face.

I held my post,

the rough boards digging into my ribs,

my head light from hanging down,

my hand tingling,

my heart filling

my entire chest.

When the first kitten emerged,

dressed in its silvery sac,

the first-time mother

looked back to see

what it was.

And in that glance, she understood.

She understood, and she took over,

licking, licking the sac away,

licking life and breath

into that damp, ugly creature

with its tightly folded ears,

slits for eyes,

stubby tail.

In that instant, she gained a new authority,

no longer dependent on me.

Perhaps she knew my tongue

wasn’t rough enough

for the task,

my spirit not grown enough

to manage all that lay ahead.

When the next kitten arrived,

though,

and the next,

and the next,

she still pushed against my hand,

though not in the same desperate way.

Now she knew what she was about.

She knew who she had come

into the world

to be.

Still, I stayed until the last kitten

had slipped into the world,

until Cinder had freed it,

licked it dry,

drawn them all close

to feed.

Then I rose from my post—

mosquito bitten,

rib-sore,

tired,

though none of the effort had been mine—

and went to my own supper,

transformed.

Four tiny creatures

the summer afternoon

had never imagined

now lived.

And I,

I,

I

had witnessed

my first miracle!