stefanie vohs
Nov 6 · 10 min read

Fragments of Mika

As I lay here, I finally see her. The fiery glow of the candle casts shadows onto her, creating depth and purpose between each feathery fragment of her form. The lines and edges of her fur create a textile of chaotic beauty. A serial blizzard impeding a solace of perpetual warmth.

It’s always been different with her; and despite the displays of her cat-like analogies , she’s always remained separate from the rest. An entity that far exceeds any expectations. Even as a kitten, as an 8-week old baby, she shared her demeanor with her environment. Her softness dripped onto you, enveloping you in a waking dream of velvet colored variants. She devoured the harsh selvage that locked us in place, the roles that kept us, that kept her and I, as human and cat.

I scan the room following the heedless prancing of paws and tails, hoping for a response, an invitation to join in. I knew I wanted a kitten, but so far, none of the blustery fur balls scurrying about caught my attention. As I inched further into the room, I clasped onto my forearm. My fingers gripped my skin through anxious dismay in hopes of seeking comfort. My anxiety outgrew my attention as I sternly pinched myself in and out of cerebral consciousness. This memory is of us, of our beginning, it morphed from that of a dream-like substance, as if our eventual acquaintance would be nothing else but instinctual necessity. I wasn’t sure what it was I was looking for, nor did I know if I was looking for anything at all. I looked around the room as a spectator of sorts, hoping for a sign — a transferable signal that beckoned for my response.

In my peripheral, I see an umbra, a blurred bicolor form folded into the wall. I turn my head and adjust my vision, focusing on her face. She’s watching her brothers and sisters, observing them through an investigative examination. It’s as though she doesn’t understand, as if she’s capable of conscious thought beyond that of a feline. Her curiosity didn’t match the others, it was stretched like a canopy across the room, gouging the fabric with intention and purpose.

Her gaze locked into a plume as she stared into the congregation of brindled sequences, confused by the prancing pirouettes of her other halves. That look, it’s something I will forever cherish. It’s what drew me to her. To this day, she still looks at me like that. Like she’s questioning the parts of the pieces around her — the parts of the world that are embedded and stretched into layers.

She still finds me like this, a macular of understanding adhered to her chest like a badge — and she wears it with pride. When she looks at me, she searches through an investigative queue, tiptoeing through depth and tiers. Even in this moment, in the newness of our meeting, our acquaintance felt ancient. As if our paths were always crossed and intertwined, like we were living through a repurposed fulfillment or déjà vu. The tone, the ambience, it resembled a sacredness that enveloped me fully. She flooded me with a feeling of perpetual bliss. Our bond has always existed through antiquity.

As I stare at her, I find distinction. The outline of her tiny form conflicts with the white of the wall, emphasizing each intentional curve and line. The flecks of dried paint, encompass her, illustrating a shrine — a holy entrapment of sacred ambiguity.

As I fall into her grasp, I can feel her. In that moment she bled into the atmosphere and implanted herself in me. I watched her divert her attention, and suddenly conform to the direction of my eyes. We sunk into each other. Her fur, which exhbited a tabby-like structure that staggered into blustery spots of gray and white. I walk over to her and put my hand out, her nose delegates and taps the tip of my finger. She breathes in, inhaling the aromatic scent and inspecting its lineage.

This is our first handshake.

I pick her up and embrace her size. She’s minuscule, fitting into the margins of my hand. I turn her, rotating her body to face me and lift her up. She’s cupped into my hands, sitting parallel to my face. I gaze into her, “do you want to come home with me?” I ask. She responds with a slight purr that wanders into a flocculent meow, a quiet utterance that invoked a message.

“Yes?” I say

“Yes.” She responds.

As I think of the past, as I string myself through memories, it’s hard to imagine my life any other way. Ten years of ubiquity, and it’s still not quite enough. I absorb this moment as I look at her. The projection of light dances across her face. The wick crackles through static whispers, as the flame illuminates her grizzled cheeks. Each pore is defined, tenderly displaying the sufficiency. of each threaded whisker.

As I drift into the textured pigments of her edges, my perceptions begin to overlap and fade. For so long I believed that this significance was of little value, that it hung on a string that I tied to my wrist. It dwindled and dangled, as I attempted to adhere an ideology, a stream of beliefs to its curdled knot. I was unaware of the truth, the hidden reality that hung between my feet. That our relationship was far deeper than the crooked hope I barely held up. She’s been there all along, existing through fragments of light and chaos. She’s my connection, my understanding of the instinctual and habitual nature that swells and dwells within me. It’s through her that I learn about myself, that I feel connected and understanding of my life.

She seems engrossed, like she’s lost in an enchantment of solace. Her eyes shift and engage. She stares into me, her pupils extend and latch onto my body. The complexion of her iris, of green and yellow hues, vanish into a freckled void, an all encompassing border that sinks and turns to black. The outline of my form sits silhouetted in her reflection. Even now, after growing into adulthood together, I still see myself in her — and she in me.

Mika and I have found a routine, a multifaceted schedule that hinges on the display of my affection, my fears, my inabilities. Some days, the days in which she knows I need it, she asks for more, hoping to input an inkling of distraction within me.

“Please pet me!” She’ll meow.

“I can help.”

The days that I struggle, that I don’t feel so well; the days that I’m flooded with illness, or enveloped in sadness, she’ll strap herself to me. The process has always entrapped me in cloud of curiosity.

How does she know?

She reads the air when I’m like this, showing me how to develop my surroundings. She tells me how to find length within the walls that exceed me. She inherits the breath around her, utilizing the waves of energy to initiate the next steps. From across the room, she will sniff me out, attempting to break me away from my booth of doubt.

Since she was a young adult she has done this. Implementing the radial perceptions that surround me to decipher the problem.

“Do I stampede her?” “Do I soften the blow?” “Should I pounce?” “Do I lay down next to her?” “Do I urgently comfort her?” “Do I just sit?” “Encircle her with my essence?” “Do I trip her?”

As she decodes the integral vigor that trickles into her presence, I sit enfolded, immersed into my current impediment. I fold my arms over my legs, and sit in my lamentable feelings. From the other side of the house, through the hallways and wooded floor, I hear a slight reverberance of a “meow.” Her voice is shrill and small, losing capacity as it echoes off the walls and various ornaments that seperate us.

Already I’m distracted; floating farther away from my own distressful cavern. I peek my head out, allowing light and warmth to attach itself to me, letting the darkness drip away. I open my door, allowing a small crack to insert in a response.

“Mika?” I yell.

“Meow?” She says.

Suddenly, her ghostly resonance stutters into the room. She pushes the door open, and falls into my lap. Her embrace sits with softness as I begin to brush the tears off my cheek. The corners of my lips raise, binding a stubborn smile onto my face. I feel my muscles reposing and fighting back, attempting to dissolve the expression. Mika rolls over and delicately turns herself to look at me. She stares into me, her pupils dissolve into softness and penetrate to my core. I smile again, and brush her fur with my fingered bristles. Her beauty, her essence; it’s like magic. She keeps me from falling into patterned woes, into the deepness of tragedy.

“Thank you, Mika.”

“Meow.”

As she watches me, she invites me toward the candle. She stares incessantly, watching the flame flicker. I watch her follow the finicky form, and notice her desired self design a path for me to join. It’s like she’s adhered to my brain, to the ridges and complexities that exists internally.

Despite her incoherence to my own thoughts and feelings, her natural instinct seems to align with the output of my own.

“How does she know?” I mutter.

“How is she able to integrate a human connection through frequencies that aren’t even visible?”

“And how am I able to tell?”

This connection between us, it deepens through the veins of a clock.

The fur that lines her body, the shifty grizzled patterns of white and gray, it extends and protracts through silent whispers of conjunctive meaning. The candle illuminates her and I feel illuminated watching. She’s feeling me through the soft breeze that bleeds through the crack of my window. The gusts of wind dance between us, entangling my scent and transporting it to her.

She is listening to the entrapment of air that sits beside her, decoding the language that it speaks. It’s declaring an ambiance of safety, that I am what she’s looking for. Her hair extends like an antenna as she tilts her head and sits up. The echo of illumination hides behind her, casting a shadow on the wall. Her form is magnified while her tail whisper back and fourth.

She slowly browses the room before pivoting and walking toward me. The piling of blankets, of patterned throws and pillows lay beneath her, coagulating the bed and deepening her path.

Her movement is precise — she’s intentional with every step. Her commitment drifts through the room and weaves between shapes and forms. Through the angularities of bedding. I know what she wants, and she knows I invite it.

“Mika, I invite it.”

When Mika was in her adolescent youth, she was a continuous assembly of affection, of coziness and devotion. Even through the tough times, the moments of pain or tragedy, the cat fights, or the adoption of her babies, she would lovingly float to me, clearing a path of decisive ambition. She’s resilient, she’s forgiving, and she loves unconditionally; it’s in her nature to protect, to care.

At four months she began exhuming a formula, a blueprint of habit. Through a decade of observations I have come to realize that the cuddles, the pets, the rubs and the nudges, they were all intertwined with an instinctual intention; a marking of trust, of safety and love. That I am hers and she is mine, that she will always take care of me.

Her head ducks down as her body inches closer to me. She collapses into the my knee. Her ears pin themselves down while tapering off behind her head. Her whiskers make contact first, as her face hits the dermis of my skin. She enforces an undulation, a repetitive nudging that gently sweeps against me. She goes back and fourth, using her cheek and forehead for a continuous blunt rub. She lets up and retracts, signaling her senses to join her. And suddenly, we are both aligned.

Her feelings are being transmitted, radiating through the fragrance of my being.

“Did I do it?” She looks at me.

“Did she do it?” I stare at her

I focus on her as she pushes forward again. This time her tail falls in line and synchronizes with her. The back of her body ascends and halts, insisting a specific craving. Her tail extends and lifts. I stretch out my hand and reach out for her. My fingers adjust and mold to her form. I pet her gently as she embraces my migration. Her tail curves through an analogue positioning, further matching the movements of her hind legs.

She embraces the affection and falls into another bunting. She pauses and taps her flat pink nose against my leg, beginning to formulate her own morse code. She is messaging the response of her own instincts.

The odors that she interlaced as affection are beginning to collide with mine. The scent that exists within her world, now exist within the fabrics of my skin. Her response, although generalized and still, seem clear.

This “love-bump,” this behavior of love through pheromones and chemicals, it’s successful.

“It will do the job.”

She looks up at me, her pupils retract and her eyes appear softer. She lets out a “meow,” a guttural soft, almost purr-like noise that reverberates and echoes through the response of illumination.

“I know” I say.

“I love you too.”

The connection between us, between Mika and I, is more than just that of a cat and her human counterpart. I find meaning in the language that she elicits, within the habitual instincts and behaviors she impounds; within the nudges and bumps, within the reactions and engagements. I gain meaning from our meetings, from the coexistence that exists between us. She’s my world, and I am hers. The difference between us is exactly what allows for us to stay in sync, for us to exist and connect. Mika encapsulates a wildness, an organic consciousness that teaches and relieves me of the humanity that courses through me. It’s that candid contention that has lead us here — to this place in which we are connected.