“Light ‘em if you got ‘em!”

The call rings out across the arena, and the crowd roars in response. I’m twenty-two, it’s Lollapooloza and I’m currently clad in only a red bra and jean shorts. It’s 100 degrees today, and I’ve cast modesty to the wind...but not the SPF. I’m not that far gone.

But this is my first really big concert, and I’m high: high on the music, high on my own feeling of “I can take on the world in only my bra,” high on the fact that I just saw Perry Ferrell stroll by.

I’m also just plain high.

(so thrilled to be doing these again, yeah, yeah, nothing was stopping me, but, hey)

(I know, Connie! But it's so much more fun to do it as part of a community effort. It's good to see what everyone comes up with. I went with my first thought, but I might play with a different take later.)

The hand holding the lighter shakes with cold. I roll my thumb over the strike wheel until I can feel the pad begin to bruise. “Come on,” I whisper. Finally, there’s a catch and flame glows weak, then brighter. It reveals metal beams, collapsed walls, and my leg, pinned to the ground.

My heart pounds in my ears. The lighter sputters, then dies. In the darkness, two pinprick sparks appear in the distance. They approach as I call out. The lights circle, too close to the ground. Something pants nearby. Licks its jaws. The lights wink out, then open again.

OK, not sleeping tonight ... at least, not with the lights off.

When I pick him up, I'm as careful as I can be, because his bones are right there under his skin. He's the Velveteen Cat, his fur rubbed off in places, so thin he's a walking skeletal model of a creature. We call him the Lich Cat, say that he actually died two years ago but he hasn't bothered to stop moving.

He purrs as I settle him in my arms, and he slithers to his favorite spot on my left shoulder. I've worn scarves heavier than him. He drapes his front legs over my shoulder and settles his fragile head down with a long, happy sigh.

Aw...

Edited because he had both front legs. He had all his bits, except his boy bits, they were just very thin and old. I miss my Koogie.

So many already! Awesome.

~
You thought love would be a weight. Something that would fill you up inside, bleeding into every empty space, filling in the cracks life had made as it broke off pieces of you every day. Love would be a kind of security blanket for the soul, you thought.

That was before. Before you met him, before he held you, before you fell asleep with the bony heat of his knee pressed into your thigh. Love wasn’t heavy at all. Love made you light, a balloon floating above the streets, but always tethered by his hand, holding tight to the string.

My mother told me once that my first word was “light”. Not mama, not sissy, certainly not dada. Light. I wonder what I meant. I suppose I was asking for the light to be turned on in my bedroom. That’s something a little child would say. But I don’t remember ever being afraid of the dark. Maybe I was asking for the light to be turned off. The dark was safe, after all. Nothing bad ever happened to me in the dark.