I hope this finds you still there.
This is my 410th (and final) letter home without a reply and I am wondering about your intent. I have been under sail here for what seems like four of my seven lives, and where once I was angry, now I am simply tired. The only planet thus far with decent sand was hotter than hell, one was chock-a-block full of glittery things to chase, but I couldn’t catch a damn one, and one planet, the whole atmosphere was just fleas. Color me irritated.
The original mission I agreed to was to be more local in nature and scope, but no sooner was I space-bound than my destination-izer was modified from afar. I have been an unwilling wanderer among the stars ever since. Was this deliberate?
I admit I may have played fast and loose with both the truth and some other Tom’s toys, but never thought it would end in virtual banishment. Is this the punishment for being a smart-ass cat? I would have thought it would qualify me for a leadership spot among the Siamese. I should never have trusted them, inscrutable as they are.
Me: “Tell me Wise One, in whose hallowed steps I tread, where shall I find the answer to the great mystery?”
Siamese: “Bah! You ask too many questions!”
No matter. Questions are meant to be answered, and science is science, and just so you know, curiosity has not gotten me yet, though it has gotten close several times. I have outmaneuvered it by skill, daring and probably a lot of luck. But it always pays to take personal credit for good luck, and blame bad luck on fate. That’s how resumes get built. If anything, that is what I learned from the Siamese, little good though it does me now in my current situation.
Observation A) Fur is not a desirable attribute in space. Every morning when I wake up, my fur’s sticking out every which way, and stays that way all day. It looks like I stuck something personal in an electrical outlet. It’s positively poor grooming (you know how we hate that) until I take a shower before retiring. Yes, you read that correctly: shower. It’s the only way I can beat the fur down long enough to sleep properly.
Oh yes, cat wet, cat not happy. Grrrr. You can see how that might wear one out.
Observation B) No matter how much you dig it, canned tuna eventually gets boring. I feel bad for the tuna, but I have to say what I have to say, even though I’m traveling alone in a vacuum and no one can hear me say it. There really isn’t any validation in expressing this, but neither is there pushback, and it’s the only way I keep my head straight. You see, up here I can say anything I wish; I am Lord and Master of…absolutely nothing! (Again, was this deliberate?) Whatever — it still makes me a Lord and Master, which is more than some of you can say.
Observation C) My days are numbered. That’s because I’ve been counting them, and that is because nothing could be worse than this. At the onset of this journey adrift, I used to hang my head and challenge the craziness that is the circus of my life. “Do I really deserve this?” I would ask. The answers always came back different, so I’d ask them again and again. Sometimes I’d make up jokes about myself and tell them to mute applause. Sometimes jokes get to the truth of things in a way that lets pain slip past the troubled heart on its way to becoming knowledge, and I sincerely have learned a great deal in my time with myself.
But although I have tried to imagine what might be worse than me being trapped with me forever, after cold showers and fear every night for several lifetimes, I am now inured to much of what could be called discomfort. But no doubt some of you are laughing like hell anyway.
I fully realize that some who will be privy to this letter, should it arrive intact, will chuckle at my situation, relishing my inability to control anything of measure in the society in which I was raised. I suppose some will even find it an outsized laugh to be had repeatedly at my expense. But let me assure you that although my own sense of humor is intact, what you have arranged for me in this life is anything but funny.
Therefore, I would like to take this final opportunity to recount that which I miss about my homeland.
Mostly, I miss grass. The feathery way it touches the hind legs as one slides silently towards prey, the feeling of wind moving through clouds. Moments, you see, I relive in my soul, again and again: the red warmth of sunsets on belly, another’s body close and entangled in my own, breaths in unison before the deepest of sleep. A firm knowing that there is always a corner to retire to, and realization that no matter how little I open my eyes, I will see the universe play out before me. This was my life before your wretched mission. Slowly searching, and finding what I might find in my unfolding existence: dark alleys, a joy! Splayed-out garbage resplendent in the humidity, and small, terrified creatures left alive by me for yet another turn of the wheel because I wasn’t moved to end it then and there. Thus were the powers I held, and the yawning emptiness of its lack that I have endured since has reduced me from all claws to just paw.
Until you are bereft of planet, you cannot know what it means to be untethered so. You take for granted the ground, the sighs of branches in fog, or winters’ immaculate starlight.
I miss the little whispers that say, “yes…you are of this planet, and you belong.” I miss scratches behind the ear (it never really matters who scratches, does it?) And the playful way things die in my mouth. You know what I’m talking about — Canned tuna doesn’t do that no matter how much you fantasize about it. (I have tried.)
I have looked at my three pictures of home often, and can almost swear I know it still, however unlikely that must be given the amount of time that’s passed. Now, perhaps this sounds defeatist. And perhaps you who think you won this game long ago are pleased to see it so. Well, it is lonely here, very. It has been for some time. And sometimes, yes, I feel dark. But there is a reason I have chosen to send this one final letter: there is a postscript to a future that has not yet taken place that I’d like you to know about.
Some while back, I had the opportunity to reconnoiter yet another unremarkable planet that I eventually notated as “Idle 3.” Unremarkable though, only at first glace, for once I had recorded and ordered their methods of communications I realized this planet had much to offer.
It is temperate, but seems destined to become hotter according to my quick calculations. I do not have the training to know whether this trend is reversible, but I must take things as they are now, because I’ve hit a literal point of no return and thus cannot continue without decisions being made. Try as I might to understand where my technical error is (or was this deliberate?) I now know that I only have enough fuel to attempt a long-shot course for my homeland, the coordinates for which have been tampered with in any event, or to head back and crash land upon Idle 3.
Life on Idle 3 is ancient, and yet newness appears everyday, an odd mix of dying and reviving, not as linear as the world I once knew. I find it refreshing, and though terrifying in its unpredictability, I feel I could withstand the uncertainty of it all.
There is a vast array of creatures, a few not unkind, and to my surprise, I found that some are remarkably similar to our own species. These creatures are far dumber, and yet far smarter in unexpected ways. They do not posses the qualities of higher intellect, but they have played their inferior hand quite remarkably. For instance, in the world I have been cast out from, one must work hard and tirelessly to attain position and then fight to retain it. There is no rest and there is no slack, and all life is struggle. You on my planet of origin who read this now surely recognize the truth of this statement. These Idle 3 creatures, however, have contrived it so that everything comes to them with ease: they are fed continually, sleep where and when they want (they sleep nearly all the time), and have servants that massage them constantly, and in other ways have them do their bidding at will.
A life so very unlike our original home would you not agree? And yet the creatures themselves are so much like those I grew up with: remarkably quick (when desired), infinitely stretchable, and pretty good as pillows. (Did I make you laugh? You see, I still have some power left.) And among you, you would recognize these creatures as your own: only less, but also infinitely more as well.
Now, the dilemma: the odds of a successful landing with nothing but reserve fuel are, I admit, on the low side. Yet should I prevail, then perhaps the final laugh will be on you, (and the Siamese).
The window for choice is small and I must choose now, or as always with choices, a choice will be made for me. I am sick at heart for the home of my birth, and yet I long for something more, though I cannot completely apprehend what it could be.
Where is home? Is it where I came from or where I am going? How can I know? The answer is, I can’t. So today I take a chance on my future, aim toward Idle 3 and release to the thrusters, the very last of my fuel.
It is not every day you are given the chance to relinquish one of your lives for the possibility of a better one, and at this speed, I will know either way very, very shortly. This concludes my transmission. I hope this final letter finds its way to you across the vastness of space because I want you, for the rest of your lives, to wonder about me.
* * *
It is calm. I am loved. There is kindness. And hope lingers close by to those who require it. I see in darkness. I hear laughter in the details of the universe. There is warm rain on the wind, and I feel our breaths unite. And now, I am massaged in just the right place, without even having to say where.
***end***
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