diving buddy

When I was a little girl, I used to love when my mother changed the sheets in my parents’ room. She would lift the drier-warm cloth over her head and throw it across the great expanse of bed- and I would squeal and dive under it, a quick visitor in a bright sheet-cave that collapsed over me. My mother would pretend to grumble, Bat-Sheva, get out from there, I need to make the bed. And I would pretend to agree and tumble off - only to dive in again when she threw the sheet across a second time. I could play the game forever, I never tired of it, and would only give up when the grumble in my mother’s voice became genuine, Bat-Sheva STOP.

Then years passed, and I forgot to play the game. And then more years passed and I forgot I had ever played the game. And then more years passed and I got Marlow. Marlow is my cat. Every time I get out the laundry bag, his butt gives a little wiggle. I throw up the sheet and he dives underneath, scuttling around in the little tent, attacking imaginary mice. He loves it. He can play the game forever, he never wants to stop.

One day I called my mom to tell her another one of those “my cat is so cute” stories. And she said, “you know you used to do that too.” And only then did I remember. And now whenever Marlow’s butt does that little wiggle and his arms flail out and he pounces tentward, I find that I can be in two places at once- throwing the sheet, and the little girl diving under it. Marlow is like a little me, and I had forgotten I ever was a little me. He helps me remember and that makes me grateful.