An old lady sits on her porch on a hot day in July, gazing across her small overgrown lawn at the children playing on the swings across the street. She watches as their legs pump the air, propelling them higher and higher. Her own legs mindlessly push the porch swing in rhythm with them, and she closes her eyes as a breeze cuts through the midafternoon heat. Oh, to be young again.
As much as she hates to admit it, she was lonely. And bored out of her mind. Never married, no kids; she never wanted that life anyway. But most of her friends have passed away over the years and her cousin, her last living relative that she remained in contact with, was just put in a home this past April. Every morning is a struggle to find the motivation to merely get out of bed, and she finds herself longing for companionship.
She sighs, opening her eyes and looking up at the aged porch ceiling above her. Her gaze follows a small spider as it spins its intricate web, and she watches as the nearly invisible threads shake in the wind, fluttering erratically but never breaking. In her admiration, she almost doesn’t hear the raspy cry of a creature nearby. Snapping out of her thoughts, she looks around and notices a small, black kitten in the middle of the street. It made the pitiful noise again, and took an unsteady step across the pavement before stumbling. Her eyes dart around but there was no one in sight apart from the children on the swings across the street. In the distance, she makes out the sound of voices hollering over blasting music. She looks to her left and watches as a car screeches down the street towards the cat. Her eyes widen.
With a speed that even she didn’t know she had, her legs carry her off the porch and across the short yard, through the chain link gate and onto the street. She scoops the cat up in her arms and hurries to the other side just as the car zips past, one of its passengers flinging a “Nice save, grandma!” at her before the car speeds around a corner and out of sight.
Heart racing, she tries to catch her breath, and flops onto the grassy curb beside her. Her legs begin to shake as the adrenaline wears off, and she stares unfocused at a crack in the pavement. A hoarse purr snaps her dazed eyes to the cat resting contently in her arms, and it stretches a paw to rest on her chest. Blinking, she looks around. What just happened?
Looking at the kitten up close, it is clear that it was a stray. Either that, or it had a terrible owner. The old lady strokes the matted black fur
Clutching the cat, she makes her way back to the house, slowly and carefully. Once they get inside, she grabs a bowl from the kitchen and fills it up with milk, setting it on the floor as the cat jumps down from her arms. “What am I going to do with you?” she asks the little creature as it laps at the milk hungrily. She is still a bit shaken, and she notices a pain in her knees and left ankle. The old lady groans. That’s enough physical activity for one day. She limps over to the living room and lowers herself onto the couch. The cat immediately follows and makes itself at home on her lap. The old lady scratches in between its ears, smiling as it closes its eyes in pleasure and starts to purr.
Later that night, as she lays in her bed with the cat curled up next to her, the old lady finds herself thinking about how her legs had moved as if they had a mind of their own. She remembers this feeling, the exhilaration of risk and daring. The feeling of adrenaline pumping through her veins and the excitement of experience. She sits up suddenly, startling the cat. Clamoring out of her bed, she shuffles rapidly to her closet, ruffling through the stacks of boxes near the back before grabbing the one she was looking for; an old, tattered cardboard box labeled “COLLEGE” in bold, block letters. Sitting on the floor, she opens it and searches through the piles of pictures and trinkets, scraps of her past. She finally plucks a folded, yellowed sheet of paper out from under a plastic trophy—Most Likely to Travel the World. She carefully unfolds the note, and the top of the page reads “My Bucket List” in neat, swooping letters surrounded by little doodles. Her aged fingers brush the pen strokes that they had written decades ago, and she is hit with a wave of guilt. How would her younger self react if she knew that her list had been thrown in a box to collect dust? Beside her, the cat bumps its head against her arm.
She looks down at the cat, then back at the paper. She feels her heart beat faster. Her eyes pass over her college-self’s dreams one by one. She knows she can’t do all of them, not in her old age. “Skydiving” and “Parasailing” might be a little much for her old heart, but things like “Go to a concert” and “Visit 25+ states” seem a bit more doable. The cat lets out a raspy meow, and the old lady strokes its dark fur, smiling. “I guess you’ll be tagging along, then?” she asks. The cat blinks and gives her a throaty purr. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she chuckles. Using the old cardboard box for support, she hoists herself up and makes her way back to bed, the cat close on her heels and her bucket list firm in her hands. Grabbing her laptop, she tucks herself back under the covers as the cat snuggles onto her lap, circling a couple times before settling in the curve of her legs. The light of the screen illuminates her face in the dark of the room as she types into the search bar: Hotels near Yellowstone National Park…The old lady pauses, glancing fondly at the purring mass of fur, before adding…pet friendly.
