The Cat Who Came Back Through the Clouds

An excerpt from my memoir: Lydia's Lantern

Before there were four cats ruling my household, there was another cat, a blind albino, hearing-impaired Turkish Angora mix.

I’ve been working on a memoir about her, Lydia, and occasionally I’ll share small fragments here. This is the moment I said good-bye to her, not knowing the story wasn’t over:

I never thought I’d get Lydia back. Not after five years. Not when she had never been mine to begin with.

She was my former housemate’s sister’s cat, a relationship twice removed, the kind that should not leave a mark.

When I bade goodbye to Lydia the last time I visited her, it was an ordinary day in Colorado, the air thin, the light bright, the mountains quietly watching.

As I struggled with my hiking boots, Lydia sat in the foyer, her unseeing, milky-blue eyes turned towards me.

“Lydia,” I said, speaking loud and clear so that, even with her hearing impairment, she might register my voice. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to come see you anymore. I’m leaving for California.”

The puzzled expression never left her face. Her pink nose sniffled.

I reached over and stroked her, blinking back tears. She pressed her head against my open palm.

I straightened myself, and with a final glance back, I closed the door, stepped outside, and made a wish. Not on a star, but on the wind that caressed my face, then let the wish go like a leaf on a stream, one small thought among the countless that crossed my mind as I prepared for my trip.

And now here it was, years later, long after I’d forgotten it. The wish had boomeranged its way back to me.