By D Michael Collins
This story is about Michele, but it begins with something Emily said about hope. She called hope the thing with feathers. She wrote a poem about it:
Hope is the thing with feathers
–from public domain
BY EMILY DICKINSON
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
I am okay with what Emily wrote because it’s true, and it sounds nice, but there are many things about hope that are also true, and Michele, well, her experience was different.
Hope for Michele was not a bird, it was a cat, a crazy cat. From time to time, she even called the cat crazy Cat, but the cat had a name. Yes, that’s right. You guessed it. The cat’s name was Hope.
It was about three days before Christmas when Michele realized that Hope was gone. She pulled into her driveway after a long day at work and when she walked onto her front porch, she could feel something was different.
She looked around at her decorations—the twinkled colored lights wound around the porch railings and all around her front door—she really did love Christmas–and she went all out decorating her house inside and out—there were lights on the railings, on her front door, and over the door there was a star.
Most times all this made her very happy, but right now, at the moment when she should have felt the happiness wiggle its way into her heart, she felt nothing; no, not nothing, worse, she felt sad, and as she lifted the latch on her door, out of habit she called, “Here kitty.”
“Here, crazy cat.”
“Come and get your dinner.”
Nothing.
And that is when it hit her, Hope was gone.
Over the next two days, Michele tried very hard to be happy. Mostly she distracted herself with Christmas chores, buying last minute gifts, wrapping gifts, making phone calls to friends and family, planning visits—stuff she loved to do because it made her feel Christmasy.
It was on Christmas Eve when she was talking to Denise, though, and Denise asked her if everything was all right, that Michele confessed.
“No,” she said, “everything is not all right. Hope is gone.”
***
Over the phone, Denise tried her best to make Michele feel better.
“Hope isn’t gone,” Denise said, finally, “Hope is never gone.”
“This time, friend,” Michele said, “while I would like to agree, I simply can’t. I try to rekindle the Christmas spirit, but nothing helps.”
“Well,” Denise said, “try to put on a brave face.”
“I’d rather put on a child’s happy face,” Michele said.
“So do it,” Denise said.
***
Michele tossed and tossed in bed. She turned and turned, and fluffed her pillow, if not once then a hundred times. She even put the pillow over her ears to try and quiet things down, but she knew that would not work because the noise was in her, in her head and in her heart—she missed Hope, and it hurt.
Around midnight, she thought she heard someone calling. At first the cry was far far away, very faint, muffled, barely audible, but then the cry must have gotten closer because she heard it much more clearly, so clearly that she needed to get up and check.
She put on her warm slippers and threw her robe on. The whole time she was trying to track the orgin of the cry.
When she realized, it might be coming from outside, she felt her pulse quicken.
Could it be? Might it be? Hope?
She threw on her heavy coat and knitted cap.
“Someone catches me out here, they are going to put me in the loony bin,” she said aloud.
Then she stopped. “I am talking to myself, right. Bonkers.”
She pushed the door open. The cry was loud and clear. It had to be Hope.
“Geez,” she said.
And she began to call.
“Hope. Here, kitty. Hope. It’s me.”
She followed the cry along the path behind her house that ran down to the railroad tracks, where she saw, or she thought she saw, a light, a light that was coming from an old shack near the tracks.
That is peculiar she thought, and for a moment, she wondered if she were not crazy and if she were putting herself in danger. That shack had empty for years, for all the years she lived her in her house, and that was quite a few.
But against her better judgment she persisted because she knew Hope might be there and she was not going to let Hope get away.
Closer now to the shack, she could hear voices—tired voices, tired but happy voices.
“Hello,” she called.
She was at the side of the shack and already peeking around the corner.
She stepped into the light. The sight took her breath away.
She put one hand on her heart, where she could feel the ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum, the beating of her heart–ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum. The ta-dums reached up to her temples.
“Oh my,” she said, and then saw in the corner of her eye, a flicker and knew it was Hope.
“There you are,” she said. “You crazy cat.”
Hope ran to Michele and rubbed her back against Michele’s leg. Michele reached down for Hope and pulled her into her arms.
“Yes, you crazy cat,” she said. “I thought you might never come back.”
Then, Michele turned her attention to occupants of the shack.
“Yes,” the woman said, “we thought someone might come for her.”
She sat on a stool in the empty room.
“She has been a comfort,” a man said. He stood by the doorless doorway.
Michele hugged her cat.
“Yes,” Michele said. “I thought she was gone, but here she is. A friend told me that she would never abandon me, but I was worried.”
“No need to worry,” the woman said.
“My goodness,” Michele said, coming to her senses. “You must really be cold out here. Come with me. I have a place for you to stay.”
“That is very nice of you,” the man said. “But we really do not want to impose on you. We are strangers, and strangers make people uncomfortable.”
“Nonsense,” Michele said. “You come with me, and we will figure things out in the morning.”
She hugged her kitty.
“You, too,” Michele said. “Come on now.”
And that is when Michele looked up and watched the woman walk over to a corner of the room shrouded in darkness. In quiet and soothing words, she heard the woman coax a small child, not a newborn, but a small child, maybe two years old, out into the light.
“She was very tired,” the woman said, “mostly tired from playing with your pet.”
Michele, the child, the woman and the man, and Hope walked up the path from the tracks to her house, where from what Michele remembers, they ate warm food and drank warm drinks and talked into the wee hours of the morning when sleep overtook her.
When Michele woke the next morning, her company was gone.
And the only reminder, except for a thank you note, was Hope, who spent a good deal of time on Christmas morning purring and rubbing up against Michele’s legs, as Michele made a pot of coffee, as Michele dressed, as Michele piled the presents into her Jeep, and who, curled in the passenger seat, accompanied Michele as she drove to her family home, wondering how she was going to tell them what happened the night before.
Editors note: Collins is a lifelong Bristol resident who takes a keen interest in all things around the city.
Before you go!
Support local news in Bristol, CT
Help us bring back local news with a donation today. The Bristol Edition is an independent, non-profit online newspaper. Local is where we connect. Believe that local news is important? Support our work.
Be the first to comment on "A Christmas story about hope"