I let myself in my non-cozy house and snail walk to my room, cell phone in hand, volume on high. I sit on the bed and wait. Only a few minutes pass and I'm going crazy waiting for news about my sister. I glance around for a distraction and see FINK, my journal of lost memories, and decide to write my dream about Norma.
Norma came to me, wandering around, asking where her cat was. I tell her the humane society took all her cats to the new homes but she doesn't care. She keeps asking, "where is my cat? Where is my cat?" It's kinda creepy.
I can't remember how Norma died. Heart attack? I take the red shoe box out of the closet and open it. I shuffle the newspaper clippings around and find Norma's obituary. Doesn't say. I know Dad wrote up the column. Norma had no living relatives. I scrunch my eyes and try to picture Norma clearer. Pacemaker. Norma had one.
A memory slips through the vault door in my head. Broken ceramic everywhere.
I pick up my pen, ready.
I think I'm in fourth or fifth grade when the small earthquake hits. That morning, I sneak down to Norma's and listen to her snoring. The real cats line up at the window to bid me farewell as I go off to school. They know better than to meow before their master is up.
I knock on the glass right in front of the whiskered faces and then I run, laughing at how the cats all jump. Hopefully, Norma didn't hear me.
I invite a friend (which friend??) to come over to my house. She says she has to see her niece get baptized. Whatever.
Funny thing is an earthquake hit that day and the baptism was postponed for a week. We only had coffee mugs and a window that broke.
Dad said Norma had a weak heart and a pacemaker. I guess the shock of seeing all of her ceramic kitties broken was too much for her. Dad found her the next day when she didn't answer my knocks.
The police came by, asking questions. John Birch showed up with his badge. The animal shelter took the real kitties away. I asked Dad if we could keep one and he said no way.
I did get one kitty. A blue and white ceramic. I know Norma would've wanted me to have it.
I fall backwards onto my bed, exhausted. I glance at my clock radio. I've been writing for almost an hour. I sit up in a panic. Where's my phone? Right next to my leg. Where is Georgie?
Norma came to me, wandering around, asking where her cat was. I tell her the humane society took all her cats to the new homes but she doesn't care. She keeps asking, "where is my cat? Where is my cat?" It's kinda creepy.
I can't remember how Norma died. Heart attack? I take the red shoe box out of the closet and open it. I shuffle the newspaper clippings around and find Norma's obituary. Doesn't say. I know Dad wrote up the column. Norma had no living relatives. I scrunch my eyes and try to picture Norma clearer. Pacemaker. Norma had one.
A memory slips through the vault door in my head. Broken ceramic everywhere.
I pick up my pen, ready.
I think I'm in fourth or fifth grade when the small earthquake hits. That morning, I sneak down to Norma's and listen to her snoring. The real cats line up at the window to bid me farewell as I go off to school. They know better than to meow before their master is up.
I knock on the glass right in front of the whiskered faces and then I run, laughing at how the cats all jump. Hopefully, Norma didn't hear me.
I invite a friend (which friend??) to come over to my house. She says she has to see her niece get baptized. Whatever.
Funny thing is an earthquake hit that day and the baptism was postponed for a week. We only had coffee mugs and a window that broke.
Dad said Norma had a weak heart and a pacemaker. I guess the shock of seeing all of her ceramic kitties broken was too much for her. Dad found her the next day when she didn't answer my knocks.
The police came by, asking questions. John Birch showed up with his badge. The animal shelter took the real kitties away. I asked Dad if we could keep one and he said no way.
I did get one kitty. A blue and white ceramic. I know Norma would've wanted me to have it.
I fall backwards onto my bed, exhausted. I glance at my clock radio. I've been writing for almost an hour. I sit up in a panic. Where's my phone? Right next to my leg. Where is Georgie?
