For my part, I’ll remind the children not to toss you from the furniture like some ill-scored math test or like some siblings’ laundry. I’ll look the other way when my husband coddles you, though both of us know who really stole the defrosting hamburger meat.
A lyrical purr, at two in the morning, though, is insufficient to compensate me for that broken baby picture of Missy Older. A small, rough tongue dragged against my ankle, during dinner, does not make up for the torn sweater I had saved since college. In particular, settling, all warm and soft, on my lap, does not put an end to your guilt as that onus is connected to the sudden disappearance of my great-grandmother’s pitcher.
Tiny, no weight, impossibility of a feline, it is despicable how you manipulate my family. Stop staring, all large eyes and disproportioned belly, directly at me. I would have no trouble reducing you to ear muffs if I did not feel so compelled to keep on petting you. We must reach an understanding. I am Mama. You are Darling.
