In Zoey’s Eyes

By Matthew Harrison

I’m supposed to be writing something else right now, something much more important. I find that’s typically when I feel the most driven to write about something trivial. And here we are.

I’m sitting on a bed, in a building 14 feet wide on every wall. There are two white pillows inside two blue cases with a deep blue sheet to match. There is a brown blanket to keep away the chill come nightfall. There is a book, a notepad and a kitten who has taken to ravaging a small white mouse with a jingling bell inside it.

The kitten is named Zoey, and she is eight-weeks old. At eight weeks she is still prone to losing her balance when she cleans herself. When she walks, she stumbles along like maybe she’s had a few. She has black fur, dusted underneath with a layer of orange, and stripes of a stronger orange that show only on her little legs and in a few patches on her back. She has a small head with a little nose and thin, proper whiskers. She has saucers for eyes and when she looks at you, they feel electric.

In Zoey’s eyes I see madness and innocence. I see youth and unknowing and I see adventure looming. In Zoey’s eyes I watch moons grow and recede and I see autumn leaves turning. In Zoey’s eyes, I see the connection of strangers and the undoing of our tightest personal knots.

In Zoey’s eyes I found the ring of fire. Inside it there were no burns, only lessons. In her eyes I found that listening is the key to understanding, and that passion is the root of beauty.

In Zoey’s eyes, I hear rain falling, even when it’s not, and it brings me home. In Zoey’s eyes I find myself awakened and unable to fall back asleep. In Zoey’s eyes I see life renewed and feel the passage of time become defined within an unforgiving boundary.

In Zoey’s eyes I see the depth of joy and momentary distractions from misery. In Zoey’s eyes, I see good intentions fall at the foot of truth, and I see the coming of a storm that shall not soon pass.

In Zoey’s eyes I watch the night fall and hear a distant few howling at the moon. In Zoey’s eyes, I feel a lonesome chill ride the wind and I found solace in the arms of friendship.

Zoey’s eyes are electric.

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