Our Rashomon...And A Child's Touching Faith

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This post is connected to yesterday's blog of holiday reflections prompted by a photograph from 1962. I also shared the picture on Facebook, and two of my siblings commented. The sister who was a toddler in my father's lap in that photo was obviously too young to clearly remember those times, although she did write me a touching private message about the intangible thread that inextricably connects us, and how we never really leave home in our hearts. But the comment that intrigued me most was that of my older brother, who is a dedicated cat rescue activist in the Southeastern region where he lives. His comment in essence was: "We had a cat?"

Yes, we had a cat. Actually, we had more than one cat, and I recall a couple by name. But that particular cat, Colonel, was my special cat, chosen by me from among his fellows while he was still a fluffy little kitten in a cardboard box in a neighbor's basement. My siblings today would tell you I am not a "cat person", and I suppose by their standards I am not, having long since grown into a preference for the unequivocal affection and exuberance of dogs. But Colonel? He was my comfort and companion, and I loved him dearly. (My mother always misunderstood his name as Kernel, but I was thinking military rank when I chose his name, inspired by Sarge, the black and white cat next door.)

As in Rashomon, we all bore witness to the same drama (and tragedy) that was our family life, but we all interpreted it in our own ways, we each developed our own coping mechanisms, and to this day we carry our own individual versions of what ensued.  The fact that my cat-loving brother does not even remember that we had cats is a very telling example of how much of our experience was happening in our own heads.

But the intense love I felt for Colonel also meant an intense sense of loss when he died. He was a very young animal, only two or three years old, when he fell ill. There were no veterinarian  visits--we could barely afford medical care for our humans--and I watched him fade. He stopped eating, and he found a hidden place where he felt safe, and I offered him sips of water and stroked his fur and cried.

It was April 20, 1963. We buried Colonel in the backyard by the woods, and I wrote and read a prayer. Here it is, in my own handwriting. As you can see, this was no small matter to me. Basically, my prayer is a handwritten letter to God...that's the kind of terms God and I were on in those days.

And I tried to convince myself  that God must have had a reason to have taken Colonel from me and break my heart like this. Apparently I believed that my cat and I mattered this much in the universe, so much so that even the Lord himself would personally see to it that Colonel's new home would be a happy one. For now, though, his remains lay before me, "still and inert"...he could not know the tears shed over him, or "the emptiness we feel without his presence."

Yeah, I was a Sunday-schooled, starry-eyed, storybook kind of girl, so silly, so sad...and so sincere. But isn't there something lovely and touching in this childlike spin on faith? It certainly helped me through the inexplicable. And maybe some residue lingers in me still, as corny as the glitter from a Christmas card, as compelling as the glow of distant stars.