After the Stroke Read Free

having been penned up for hours, his one idea was to get away as fast as possible and hide. But before he did so I had picked him up and nuzzled the soft fur on his tummy, and had seen his snub nose, his huge blue eyes and his coloring, slate blue face, ears and paws and the rest a creamy white. His paws are huge and very soft. Well, he was indeed a great beauty, but when I went to bed he was nowhere to be found and I wondered and waited and must have finally fallen asleep, for when I woke up before light, I found he was lying on my head and had been there no doubt for most of the night. That was a good sign.
    A kitten? At first a hurricane would have been the word. For the first two weeks I was woken at dawn by the sound of a large life-sized stuffed lamb in my bedroom being knocked over, and strange raucous miaows from deep in the kitten’s throat as he attacked the beast with claw and tooth, tearing at its tail and ears, then suddenly flinging himself downstairs and racing around the house.
    Before he came I had decided to name him Pierrot, “mon ami Pierrot,” as he is called in the old song my mother sang to me when I was a baby:
    Au clair de la lune,
    Mon ami Pierrot,
    Prête-moi ta plume
    Pour écrire un mot.
    Ma chandelle est morte
    Je n’ai plus de feu.
    Ouvre-moi ta porte
    Pour l’amour de Dieu.
    He had certainly come into my life at a desolate time, when “my candle was out.” But at first he did seem in his violence a little too much for me, especially the day after Carol brought him and she had left. For he simply vanished for seven hours, and I did not dare call Carol to see she was safely home until after dark when he suddenly appeared from nowhere and gave a plaintive mew.
    That was the beginning and now after two weeks we are semi-friends, routines have been established, and perhaps he and Carol are responsible for my turning the corner at last, and able to begin a new journal.]

Friday, April 11
    It is still cold and dreary here, although treasures are humping up under the salt hay on the flower beds and maybe by next week I can release them into sunlight. The more miraculous it was, then, in the cold rain, to find yesterday in the mail a tiny box from Duffy in Connecticut containing four sprigs of arbutus, the waxy perfect pink flowers sending out a whiff of that nonesuch perfume—my nose could hardly believe it!
    There was also a cassette from a composer, Emma Lou Diemer, at the University of California at Santa Barbara, a recording of her composition for my poem “Invocation”—at its first performance. It was beautiful although the words did not come through, but the musical atmosphere was just right.
    At four this morning Pierrot snuggled up under my hand, butting his head into my palm, and lay there purring very loudly—a sweet way to start this day.
    He is a ravishing sight, a fluffy white extravaganza and his large, very soft floppy paws suggest that he will become a huge cat.

Saturday, April 12
    Frost on the grass this morning.
    Pierrot decided at four that it was time for a wild tear, up and down and roundabout without stopping for an hour—sliding the scatter rugs under the bed, thumping loudly, scrambling in and out of the bath. At such times his eyes are red; he is a violent spirit, a land of fury and sometimes makes a hoarse, loud, ugly miaow of rage. So by five when it was time to let Tamas out I was tired, but I did get an hour’s sleep before I got up at six-thirty and now the sun is out.
    It is nine-fifteen. I have done a laundry and cleaned out a big drawer in the kitchen which was full of mouse dirt, a horrid job, and I’m glad to get it off my mind.
    When I came home from the hospital after the stroke the daily chores seemed insuperable. Making my bed left me so exhausted that I lay down on it at once for an hour. I realized that I had always hurried through the chores in order to get up here to my desk as fast as