Simon, and the apology
This morning, still more than half asleep, I felt something nudging my head on the pillow. Like a cat nose, I thought: Simon. It was a physical memory, one of those things you could never think of or consciously remember, but there forever beneath the surface.
Every morning, early, Simon would nudge my head on the pillow, asking me to pull back the covers and let him under. If I was particularly unmoving, I might gets paws in the face.
I think about Simon frequently, maybe always: My first cat, my first long lesson in becoming more human.
I dubbed him a jackrabbit the day we found him. He was probably a year old, a large-bodied part-Siamese cat with silvery fur and pink skin, handsome black stripes and long, powerful back legs. He had been crying under my friend's porch for several days. When she lured him out (no easy task) she found him without a collar. When we put up signs no one answered. When we tried to put him in a carrying box, we learned what those legs were for.
I was twenty-one and had been looking for a cat. I wasn't sure Simon was perfect -- I hadn't selected him, which was how I thought it was done -- but she convinced me he was right. She suggested we name him David. It seemed fitting, sensitive and human, but I'd been reading The Bone People that summer, so I named him Simon instead.
I had other names for him, probably some I don't remember. Daily, he was Handsome. Before feeding, before trips, and at the vet, he was ("easy..") Big Guy. After he became sick the first time, and many times after, it was Sweet Boy.
When he got older I called him Grumplestilskins.
At the end he was Grandpa.
Simon.
After the mystery of the nudging was resolved (it was just my pillow) I went back to sleep and dreamed I ran into someone at a corner cafe. She's a good friend of my ex, someone who left my life overnight, without a word, when ex and I broke up.
I don't take decisions like that lightly. I might understand, but I don't easily forgive.
So, it was something to run into her at a corner cafe, and to say hi, and to go inside together. It was a small cafe and we both wanted lunch. We sat at the counter, politely ("So nice to run into you!"), and made conversation.
My brain ran as I developed a partition to think about how I felt. It seemed I felt okay. We were making light conversation. Part of me is always bored and frustrated by that sort of thing, when more is hanging in the air, but it was a start. I'd learned not to expect more, and it was, I discovered, good to hear about how she'd been. I realized I'd been wondering.
Still, smalltalk only goes so far and lunch is a short meal anyway: soon it was time to part. I stood up in this crowded place and headed for the door, vaguely aware that I hadn't said goodbye. I stood for a minute at the threshold, under the awning with the sidewalk fanning out on either side. I contemplated which way to go.
Suddenly she came out, too, and all pretense fell away.
"Look," she said. "I just wanted to tell you. I know we all left ... "
Whatever else she had to say, it was the feeling that struck me most: her presence, and my relief. It was such a relief to have it said, acknowledged, and done with. Not like real life, maybe, but deeply felt just the same.
I realized that what I've read and learned about apologies is true: the healing power of an apology is in being seen and understood. Someone who apologizes is saying, in essence, I see you and I understand how you feel. They may also be asking, Please see me and understand me, too.
Apologies can't be forced, and when they are there is no healing in them.
Every morning, early, Simon would nudge my head on the pillow, asking me to pull back the covers and let him under. If I was particularly unmoving, I might gets paws in the face.
I think about Simon frequently, maybe always: My first cat, my first long lesson in becoming more human.
I dubbed him a jackrabbit the day we found him. He was probably a year old, a large-bodied part-Siamese cat with silvery fur and pink skin, handsome black stripes and long, powerful back legs. He had been crying under my friend's porch for several days. When she lured him out (no easy task) she found him without a collar. When we put up signs no one answered. When we tried to put him in a carrying box, we learned what those legs were for.
I was twenty-one and had been looking for a cat. I wasn't sure Simon was perfect -- I hadn't selected him, which was how I thought it was done -- but she convinced me he was right. She suggested we name him David. It seemed fitting, sensitive and human, but I'd been reading The Bone People that summer, so I named him Simon instead.
I had other names for him, probably some I don't remember. Daily, he was Handsome. Before feeding, before trips, and at the vet, he was ("easy..") Big Guy. After he became sick the first time, and many times after, it was Sweet Boy.
When he got older I called him Grumplestilskins.
At the end he was Grandpa.
Simon.
After the mystery of the nudging was resolved (it was just my pillow) I went back to sleep and dreamed I ran into someone at a corner cafe. She's a good friend of my ex, someone who left my life overnight, without a word, when ex and I broke up.
I don't take decisions like that lightly. I might understand, but I don't easily forgive.
So, it was something to run into her at a corner cafe, and to say hi, and to go inside together. It was a small cafe and we both wanted lunch. We sat at the counter, politely ("So nice to run into you!"), and made conversation.
My brain ran as I developed a partition to think about how I felt. It seemed I felt okay. We were making light conversation. Part of me is always bored and frustrated by that sort of thing, when more is hanging in the air, but it was a start. I'd learned not to expect more, and it was, I discovered, good to hear about how she'd been. I realized I'd been wondering.
Still, smalltalk only goes so far and lunch is a short meal anyway: soon it was time to part. I stood up in this crowded place and headed for the door, vaguely aware that I hadn't said goodbye. I stood for a minute at the threshold, under the awning with the sidewalk fanning out on either side. I contemplated which way to go.
Suddenly she came out, too, and all pretense fell away.
"Look," she said. "I just wanted to tell you. I know we all left ... "
Whatever else she had to say, it was the feeling that struck me most: her presence, and my relief. It was such a relief to have it said, acknowledged, and done with. Not like real life, maybe, but deeply felt just the same.
I realized that what I've read and learned about apologies is true: the healing power of an apology is in being seen and understood. Someone who apologizes is saying, in essence, I see you and I understand how you feel. They may also be asking, Please see me and understand me, too.
Apologies can't be forced, and when they are there is no healing in them.