Home Is Not A Memory

       For the two-tailed cat, home is in the lap of his owner. A brush may work out decades of living on the street from his fur, leaving it glossy, fresh and softer than ever. Fingers may even stroke through it, and somewhere deep inside, a memory long-lost, purrs a kitten hungry for attention.

Fresh food, still steaming pleasantly from when it was removed from the cooking appliances is left on the floor atop an ornate porcelain plate. Whatever gratitude remains within his instincts is always careful; don’t crack it, don’t drop it, don’t eat it. That is his plate.

His bed is beneath a lush blanket, heavy with warmth, between two bodies. They cradle him, love him, and he “wakes up” each morning with more energy in his wiry limbs. Thin claws knead the sheet before he settles down, sometimes even rolling over to display his vulnerable stomach in a show of trust to those who take care of him.

Home is where he is loved, where he is full, and where he is dry.

       For the astronaut, home is something that can no longer be found. Space is endless, and its waypoints few. There’s no returning, and no turning back the time. Home was claimed by the boundless, worn down by vacuums, rendered to bones and broken glass before those too are converted to stardust.

Home was where a crate creaked open and released the tides of Hell itself. Where the distant screams reach the ears of a quivering feline, cowering beneath a dresser. Where rushing footsteps echoed thunder, crashing and rolling and desperate. Where arms pressed into sweat-soaked fur and carried one to a false salvation.

It’s an abandoned cargo ship, bay doors opened, metal rotted and in pieces from time. Inescapable, the laws of physics, destroying something precious. A cramped hall with a dining table and dozens of empty seats, spokes of silver and porcelain strewn about the floor.

Home is a broken picture of a crew, left behind, smiling and enjoying dinner. A distant memory, as the astronaut carries out its master’s wishes of exploring the reaches of the orphan’s haven that is space.

       For the woodland wanderer, home is an ideal. A warm bed, a bowl of water, and dinner scraps. Someone to wash and dry their vest when snow and mud clings to the ruddy fabric, once a bright cherry red, now a soaked rusty crimson. A lap to lay on with the rumble of tv static in the background, like it used to be.

Home was once a small, but cozy room. Daily pampering, to make him look his best. Water on the hour so that his fire-emulating jell can twinkle and flicker in the light. Fingers stroking through his fur, brushing, the occasional needle in regards to his health. Unseen white walls and a one-way mirror, pillows to pounce on and hide beneath, a swing set made just for him.

For now, home is a warm night in a makeshift den under a canopy of leaves and stars. A morning when he doesn’t have to dig himself out from collapsed snow and dirt. A day where he finds flowing water, and doesn’t have to flee from aggressors who don’t understand him. It’s the hope that one day he’ll find companionship.

One day, home will be introducing himself to a comet.

       For the spy, home is in a simple pocket. It’s the reassuring presence of fingers patting his little home, compressing it in a way that’s cozy rather than cramped. It’s the gentle bounce of silent footsteps, the felt-rather-than-heard heartbeat that rocks his body into a relaxed state of dormancy.

It’s the rumble of a voice speaking to his master as they stand in the center of an open, tiled room, his toes curling into his partner’s shoulder in anticipation. It’s scarfing down a treat held between deft fingers before skittering down a corridor with an audio device strapped to his back. It’s avoiding gunfire and relaxing back at home after a job well-done.

And it’s stealing cigarettes from the hand of his master, the chase of a being larger and more distressed than he is. It’s hiding in a teapot, curling up when he’s discovered and kicking out his tiny legs as he struggles to hang on to the poison shaft. It’s falling back into a warm palm, relaxing as a stubbly cheek rubs against his leathery skin, and a stick of tobacco crumbled and tossed into the trash.

Home is where they take care of each other.

       And for the first of many, home is resting against the larger body of his gentle friend. It’s stealing oranges from the hands of caretakers and hiding in the middle of a massive rubber tube. Home is the soft sensation of jell gliding over his fur with affection, soothing him into 'sleep.'

It’s the day he met Dear. The chaos of someone being moved into the room next to his, the padding of feet in and out of the observation cell, carrying blankets and pillows and other soft, white things and smelly foods. The catching of his attention as he stumbles through a door when no one’s looking, and falls straight into the lap of his best friend.

It’s looking out for each other when they’re first brought into the activities room, crouching back against a flat surface and something larger bears down on him until Dear chases them away in a sudden show of bravery. It’s discovering his new favourite thing; a red ball, small enough for him to roll around with and large enough for Dear to kick around; he doesn’t leave the room without it.

And it’s finally being released into fresh air for a day, his search for snow - Dear comforting him when it’s nowhere to be found. It’s relaxing against a tree - a real tree - with Dear resting heavily beside him. The feeling of grass beneath his paws, foreign, and it tastes awful, but his friend seems to like it so it must be okay.

Relaxing back into the safety of their favourite white blanket, the soft thrum of fluorescent lights and the click as they shut off, evidence of a long day well-spent. The taste of peanut butter in his fur as familiar jell licks it off, and everything is okay again.

Home is his best friend.