Before I was born and well into my thirties, my mother’s household was never without a cat. The rules were simple: gray and fluffy—never shorthaired—with fur billowy as the down comforters they napped on; male; and named “Perky.”
My mother often sketched the various Perkys. Like most cats, they squeezed themselves into odd, too-small spots. Shoeboxes. A picnic basket. The sweater drawer of her antique bureau.
And in moments of grace, accessible once I open the creaky door of memory, I hear the faint whisper of a Perky lapping the saucer of evaporated milk my mother once poured.
Thanks for reading the micro mashup! Subscribe for free weekly microbursts
It’s on my WIP list, Jeanne. I appreciate your support-- thanks for reading!
What about a book with your 100 worlds?