by Roth, Judith
She remembered the rules about creatures. But the kitten creature was scared and alone and she was brave and alone. So she brought the kitten to her tower room and kept him there. And they were happy.
But it wasn’t long until the rule-keepers heard about the kitten and demanded she turn him out. The princess couldn’t bear to lose the kitten. So she wove a magic rune, a spell to make him invisible.
This worked for a while. But the kitten was playful. One day he saw the rune beckoning like a string and he pounced on it. He worried it until the rune unwound and floated out the window. It landed on the shoulder of a rule-keeper, who looked up to see where the rune had come from. He saw the kitten in the window.
At the same time, the princess noticed the kitten was no longer cloaked by the rune. She ran to get the kitten out of sight and looked out the window to make sure no one had seen. Below was the rule-keeper, watching. The princess didn’t notice he was smiling. She only knew he had seen the forbidden kitten. Thinking all was lost, she fainted.
When the rule-keeper saw the princess faint, he rushed into the tower and up the stone stairs. He cradled the lonely princess in his arms and murmured comforting words to the kitten. When the princess awoke she was overwhelmed by his tenderness. The rule-keeper in turn was captivated by her heart. He invited the princess and her kitten to live in his warm cottage where there were no rules against furry creatures. The princess and the kitten joyfully accepted his invitation.
And they all lived in the cottage happily ever after.
Now close your eyes, honey bunny
and dream of sweet things.
I am full
with the sound
of Mom’s voice.
But in the silence that comes
with the ending of her story
I have this thought—
The rules are back . . .
and I hear a noise.
I glance toward my open door
and catch a glimpse
of Dad turning away
catch an echo
of Dad retreating
once again
to his room.
How much did he hear?
It wouldn’t matter.
He could fill in the gaps
of his own story
told in the voice
of his dead wife.
I should have closed the door.
Now I regret
leaving the picture
of me and the orange kitty
in his room.
He will go in there
with her voice in his head
and see evidence
of my prying and accusing.
He may never want to talk to me again.
I want to go to his door
and test this out.
I want to hear him say
he loves me anyway.
I am too afraid to ask.
Dinner is saved
because he has his phone
in his room.
I wondered what we’d do for dinner
if he never came out
but he has solved that problem.
The pizza guy rings the doorbell
and Dad opens his door
a slit.
Use the money in the jar, Sara.
I’m not feeling well.
Help yourself.
That’s usually a phrase directing you
to serve yourself some food.
But this time, it feels wider:
Help yourself, Sara
because Dad
can’t help you now.
The pizza
usually a happy food
tastes hard
and uncaring.
After pizza
I drift back to my room.
Dad’s door is still closed.
I’d like to hear Mom’s voice again
but I’m afraid Dad will hear
even through closed doors.
I pick up Love Songs.
There are a few poems at the end
I never got to
so I read them now.
And the last one I hear in Mom’s voice.
I can remember her reading this to me
many times.
Maybe it was her favorite.
Here is the best line:
“I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.”
She made magic for me.
I don’t want that to end.
For no good reason other than
I’m just sick of this sad house—
I desperately want to storm
the prince’s castle.
But I’ve already burned
that drawbridge.
Serendipity leaps from nowhere and lands
on the open pages of Love Songs
pressing claw marks into the paper.
I gasp and push her away No!
She looks surprised and scared
and I suddenly remember . . .
Tomorrow is my only day left
to woo the prince
and he’s locked up in his room.
It occurs to me as I’m walking
lonely to school . . .
if Dad doesn’t fall in love by tonight—
by tomorrow morning
Serendipity will be on her way
to the shelter.
That was the deal.
Well, Dad didn’t know about
the falling in love part
but as far as he’s concerned
today is my last chance
to find her
a home somewhere else.
I am past panicking about losing her
and starting to realize
I could be responsible for
letting her end up
at the shelter.
She might die because
I brushed off a phone call.
And it will be my turn
to cry nonstop.
Miss Conglin announces a special treat.
We will watch a DVD this afternoon—
our production of Peter Pan.
She’s brought popcorn
and pillows for us to sit upon
on the floor.
This day just keeps getting worse.
Serendipity is in peril
and now I’ll have to sit through
that whole painful performance.
I’m moaning to Taylor at recess
and Kelli hears me.
She swishes by and says
Too bad you missed it, Sara.
Not too bad for you
I throw back at her.
It’s supposed to sound like a joke
but I get my voice wrong.
It sounds like an accusation
like my words are pointing fingers.
I can feel the just-kidding look
fall off my face.
So I say it instead:
I’m just kidding.
Really.
But I sound like a mean girl.
Kelli flips back
What’s wrong with you?
You won anyway.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
I turn to Taylor and she looks
as confused as I do.
Taylor gets her Harriet-the-Spy look
and says, I’m on i
t.
She casually walks over to
a group of Kelli’s friends.
She’s back in no time.
Remember that note you told me
Garrett gave to Kelli?
I nod.
He was answering her do-you-like-me note.
He checked “I like someone else.”
Hope flares.
He didn’t say,
but they think it’s you.
Maybe this day isn’t so bad
after all.
Garrett sits in the second row of pillows
and there is an empty pillow
in front of him.
I don’t wait for someone else to sit there.
I remember how my mom
made things happen
and I think maybe
I can do that too.
I try to be casual.
I sit in front of Garrett
like I don’t notice he’s there.
I can see his straggling foot
out of the corner of my eye.
I put my hands behind me
like I’m going to lean back
and my fingers brush his shoe.
He jerks it back.
I look behind me grin.
Foot still ticklish?
And then I see that slow smile come
like a sunrise on a lake.
Beautiful.
Too bad I have to face forward.
I decide the best way
to get through this performance
is to imagine myself
in the role.
I manage it all the way to the end
when Wendy is grown up
and her daughter says of Peter
He does so need a mother.
And Wendy says, Yes, I know.
No one knows it so well as I.
Just then a piece of popcorn
sails over my head
and lands in my lap.
I look behind me at Garrett
mock-studying the ceiling
with a smile twitching
at the edges of his lips.
He’s underlining the end.
Because there on the screen
is the whole cast
taking in applause and
holding up a big sign that says
For Sara!
That image warms me
as I’m walking home from school.
It overlays a cold feeling.
How can I get Dad
to fall in love with Serendipity?
Maybe I could soften him up.
I try to remember what kinds of things
used to make Dad happy.
I flash on pictures from the box
where we’re hiking in Yosemite.
He loved walking through the trees.
We haven’t done any hiking
since Mom died.
We don’t even have a car to get us there.
But he does love trees. . . .
I could make him a tree picture.
I could get him a tree seedling.
I could . . . none of this has anything
to do with Serendipity.
I’m feeling hopeless until I slip my hands
into my jacket pockets.
I remember Garrett’s quick hands
when my fingers close
around a familiar object.
A thimble.
Warm again.
I remember Mom’s inscription
about Dad—
“who makes the world a poem”—
and I think Yes.
I am holding a kiss in my hand.
I keep the thimble tucked in my palm
to give me strength
when I face Dad inside.
Dad’s bedroom door is open.
His leather bag is gone.
A short note on the kitchen table.
Mrs. Whittier is home
if you need her.
What I need is Dad here and a miracle.
Serendipity comes running
stretches her paws out toward me
her back end high in the air.
Then she drops loudly on her side
and rolls over to show me her tummy.
So cute. Dad needs to see this.
I rub her tummy, then go to my room
to find a nest for the thimble.
I’m trying to think of some special way
to show Garrett how I feel
when I see—
there on my pillow
a stack of papers
in Mom’s handwriting.
More of Mom’s poems.
As I page through them
it strikes me
they’re all about cats.
I pick up the first one to read.
SONNET FOR A CAT AND HER KITTENS
The musty-sweet smell of hay is in your
fur, kitty. A hint of where you’ve hidden
your babes. I know strangers are forbidden
to linger near the sun-dappled nest or
stroke the tiny tender noses before
you allow it, but I’ve watched your children
tussle in the night. Am I forgiven
if I explain that your son has a roar
like a dragonfly, and your daughters grow
more like you every day? Their faces draw
me; I can’t help but climb up to the loft
while you’re away and watch them swaying low
in their walk, or curling up on the straw
to sleep. They are my joy; so clean and soft.
I pick up another one. . . .
CATNAP
The cats are curled
like cinnamon buns
on the floor
like you could take
a giant spatula
and lift them
onto the plate
of your chair
like their sweetness
would sticky
the flat of your hand
like the steam
of their warmth
would rise
in clouds
of aromatic
dreams
I keep reading
until I’m cat-saturated.
It’s hard to believe
she wrote
this many poems
about cats.
It’s hard to believe
I didn’t know
this side of her.
Does this Dad-offering
mean I’m forgiven
for making him sad?
I guess he’s reaching out
the best he can
right now
sharing a bit of Mom
with me.
I wonder if he’ll tell me
in his own words
why we can’t have a cat.
Unless maybe these poems
are supposed to be
his silent answer.
Because she loved them.
Inspiration hits.
I am a poet’s daughter.
Maybe I can convince my dad
through a poem
that we need this cat.
I try to think of how I can write
all the reasons in a poem.
But my mind and the page
stay blank.
Serendipity mews near the window
and an idea bursts in my head.
Maybe a field trip
will start my brain working.
I grab a notebook and pen
tuck Serendipity under my arm
for her first trip
to the backyard.
Right away
when I set her down
she rolls in the dirt.
She’s not exactly
the princess type.
But at least I get
a warm-up poem out of it.
A TRIP OUTSIDE
Maybe if you weren’t
so white
I wouldn’t know when you got
so dirty.
You look like a cloud
that is thinking
it ought to rain.
You look like a marshmallow
dunked in hot chocolate
and dropped in the dirt.