Miss Kitty. I miss kitty.

Sugar and spice, and everything - "Wait, she's a kitten..." you say. You, the critic in my imagination, chide me for feeling such a strong, almost chaotic emotional attachment to a cat. You wag an invisible finger at me, as I dream of holding the kitty mid-class. A student stands in front of me, asking a question. Inevitably, there is something I have left unclear, as I half-heartedly explained an upcoming assignment, while fantasizing about tormenting soft, pink feet of kitten. As the student finishes up her inane and uninteresting query, I respond with a blank expression, and issue, what must be to her, a frustrating and irritated, "Huh?". I have been dreaming of the kitty again.

The reality of the kitty is far less endearing than the image I create of her. The kitten is not the sweet, purring little ball of fur and joy she once was. The kitty is mean. (At least a vast majority of the time). For every minute the kitty spends nuzzling my face with her now smelly, adolescent cat-ten body, there are ten she spends mauling my arms and legs, slapping my face with her claws, and gnashing my jugular with her vampiress fangs. Her purr has actually become an early detection system, a warning that allows us the draw our hands frantically beneath blankets or into long sleeves, like villagers narrowly escaping a fierce plague. Our legs snap to attention and are thrown akimbo and involuntarily away from the impending, throaty siren. Fear is visible in the dog's posture, as kitty enters the room. He follows her with dark eyes only, careful not to move, because nothing incites kitty's wrath more than subtle movement (for example, breathing).

The hours known as "night" are not good ones for the kitty. First of all, the kitty is not much for sleep, as you might imagine of a beast dedicated mostly to maiming unsuspecting victims. Any time that it is not the all too rare moments that kitty might be snuggled up dreaming beside me, she is prancing, claws fully extended, carrying out her guerilla wartime march across our sleeping-then-startled faces. Her triumph at my cry of displeasure is displayed with a show of further violence. Somehow her claws seem to distend from her body, functioning like tiny needle-tipped salad tongs, clutching my cheeks (left defenseless, as I sleep with my hands wrapped in bed-sheets, mummy-style, as pre-emptive security). When I am fully in her grasp, her most potent weapons emerge. You would imagine that kitten-teeth would be harmless, used only to barely aid in gumming down kitten-chow. But, you, my imaginary friend, would be wrong. Each of her teeth is like a tiny ice-pick, lance, or chisel, depending upon its position in her mouth, which seems to have become remarkably large. I have now snapped to full wakefulness, and find myself to be wearing what appears to be an excruciating kitten-mask, made almost entirely of tooth-and-nail, any remnant of her soft fur nowhere to be felt, or seen (as in fact I am seeing nothing but thrashing and my own terror). Inevitably, at this point, I cry out, and wake Bill who jerks into an immediate frenzy. I swing my face upward, which naturally flings the kitty, still in predator-mode, crashing into Bill's somehow exposed legs. I begin to silently chide him for leaving his legs open to the air (is he not yet aware of the inherent danger?). But, before I have a chance to sigh heavily, he has cupped the small kitty in his large, flat foot and catapulted her, not only off the bed, but out the door. She huffs, depressed off to her room, not to return for three-and-a-half minutes.

Another strange practice that belongs to this kitten is intense and prolonged periods of lounging. Between episodes, she can be found stretched out, sultaness-style, across our impeccably-made bed. This is fairly typical kitten behavior, I am led to believe. However, I need only add a specific stuffed animal to create a ritual that can only be described as bizarre. This stuffed animal is a winter bear, its soft fur found poking out from my stocking this past Christmas. The kitty, I noticed, took a particular and immediate liking to this plush toy. This made me happy, as I assumed his soft and fur-like coat must have reminded her of times past, happy times spent with her birth mother, brothers and sisters. I certainly would never begrudge the kitten any healthy reminiscing. However, "healthy" may be not quite the right word. The kitty soon began kneading her precious winter bear, tiny paws alternating between balled fists and fully-extended claws (immediately causing her current family to shrink with fear). The odd process of mashing the bear soon was augmented by a ravenous suckling. Yes, imaginary you, the kitten spends literally hours, sucking and licking the fur or the winter bear. By the time the dog moves profoundly enough to incite a full-fledged attack, the bear is drenched with kitten slobber, fur matted together by her gluey saliva. If nothing else, the kitten is uncouth.

All this, in addition to typical kitten behavior, such as adorably batting the dog's eyes, ripping frantically at my dried flowers and daily scattering trash and potpourri throughout the house. And yet, somehow, those small moments of tolerable behavior, along with the very spare times of sweetness and bonding, allow us to endure the majority of her life, spent orchestrating our painful demise.

Forgive my heart in its absence today - it is with our birthday angel, Sophie Salome.

I planned to have something written today. I didn't imagine this much of the day could have gone by without an outpouring of words. But, I also didn't imagine that the pain would be so very real. That the sadness would be profound to the point of paralysis. That it would seep into every crevice and unearth every nuanced bit of myself. Uprooted.

So, I will share two stories with you on this day.

There is a boy at my school, an eighth grader that was in my class last year. He is tall, gangly, almost disturbingly patriotic, and bordering on strange. But, as with most of my children, goodness in his heart is visible in all that he does. Last week, on the playground, he walked up to me and said, "Hey Mrs. Bayly, would you like to read my biography?" The children had interviewed loved ones to garner information about life-changing experiences. Obviously, as this child must have taken pride in his work, I replied with an enthusiastic, "Yes." After rooting through his backpack for many long impatient minutes on my part, he thrust at me two crumpled sheets of typed writing. This was a story about his mother, and sister, Christine. He was hovering over my silently crying body, as I read the story of his sister, a still born baby. He wrote of how this baby was a part of his life, and about his mother's reactions, and her urge henceforth to be an even more caring and trusting mother. Attention span of a typical preteen, he ran off to play basketball, pausing for a minute to look me in the eyes and asking me "Will you hold onto this for a while?" He was gone in an instant and couldn't have heard me whisper, "Sure Eric", as I looked back down at his family's story and he bolted toward the court.

As I let my students out toward their lockers the other day, one young lady gingerly plucked a piece of paper off the work station. It was a post-it note, yellow and tattered, and scrawled in light and messy pencil across its folded front was "Mrs. Bayly". A note for me? The students, before I could stop them, tore it open and read confusedly four touching lines of poetry. The writing was of nature's beauty and life's fragility. Even more confusing to all of us was the lettering at the bottom, claiming the work was from "F.P." I took the note from them, and walked the kids down to lunch, pondering the whole way who was this mysterious F.P. While I was walking out of the lunch room, a young man approached me. He was a quiet oddity in my seventh grade class later in the day. "Mrs. Bayly...that poem was from me." I replied "Craig, it is beautiful." He blushed and stood staring at me. "Craig, who is F.P.?" Craig looked at me with the endearing and quizzical expression I have been met with so many times since. "Fair Play", was Craig's reply.

"The sky is the gown of Mother Nature". -F.P.

How is tonight different?

If the clock weren't digital, I would here it tick.
The moments weigh upon me, the seconds heavy - brick.
Shoulders wracked with burden mounting, night is simply still.
My mouth is zipped as winter coat, pointless acts of will.
Aching bones that speak exhaustion - beg me now to rest,
Racing wind that screams of caution, whips both east and west.
A heart is porous, sharp and soaked - body follows suit -
It's night that binds the body down, and night the soothing root.

A Perfect Day.

Well, it rained the morning of my wedding. I sobbed, screamed to the heavens, blasted tunes in the car and pretended it was sunny and warm, promised falsely my appendix, and went to St. Mary of the Mills to pray for sun. Who knows what happened (hopefully the powers-that-be will not someday exact from me one healthy, however moot, appendix), but we got sun! Our wedding went off without a hitch. By five o'clock, the sun was streaming through the leaves, just changing to shades of gold and rust. Our guests were arriving and seated in white chairs on the lawn of the garden where we wed, guitar strumming courtesy of Jon Parsons (a long-time friend). The men and women of the wedding looked beautiful. As my father walked me up the aisle, all anxiety drifted away. I felt beautiful, and sure my heart was in the right place, and being entrusted to the right hands.














I give my heart today, soft and lightning fast,
with a promise raw and brilliantly truthful.

I promise to carry you softly to harvest places, gold and lilting.
My promise is my bittersweet song when snow and dark have drifted heavy,
Blanketing our town in night’s lavender.

My promise is to hold you in my arms
And drink delicious moments of peace by your side
Until the moment we blend perfectly into nature.

I return!

So, I got back from Spain in the middle of last week. There will be many pictures shared over the next few weeks. But, first thing is first. Wedding pictures - taken by friends and family!