She was sleek and silver-grey with large green eyes. She moved like a supple wind, as silent as seasons changing. I peeked into her box on the car ride home. She was another shadow among shadows, an absence of light, a whisper, a promise. She was magic. Her name, she told me, was Midnight.
Midnight kept her secrets. She proved her magic. After she joined our household, she grew impossibly wide, day after night growing until we felt sure she would pop. We could feel the babies pressing tightly against her skin. Sometimes if the right word was said, one of the babies would move and we could feel the ripple of her belly. On a moonless night her three children were born. We found them in my clothes drawer many hours later, blindly nursing from their mother who protected them with forepaw and a deep purr. We eventually learned that this was only the beginning of Midnight's magic. Over the years and through the seasons, she would return to this drawer of mine and cast her spell.
In the darkness of sunrise's birth Midnight would wake me for school. She came to my bed, kissing my face and jabbering unceasingly until I was standing. Then, with barely a backwards glance, she would run off to continue her morning routine. To Midnight, weekdays and weekends were the same. She never saw a difference.
Tiger was her grandson. He was my love, and I his. Born in my room, we were always together afterwards. He was stocky and strong, grey-striped, and used to getting his way, which was probably my fault. Tiger always had kisses for me, brushing his soft face against mine. It was his own sort of magic. Tiger died quite suddenly one morning adventuring in dangerous lands. His solid, loving spirit was taken from me, from all of us right before my eyes. Now his magic is gone and with it, Midnight's legacy. There are no more morning calls and no more kisses.
I miss the magic. I miss the silence of their presences, the patient eyes, the warmth. I can remember how the children grew and went away, over and over, slipping into adulthood when you weren't looking. But I can never forget how every single one of them cowered the first time they saw the sky, their childishly-fierce sidestepping bounces, the puddle of sleeping bodies, twitching in chorus to some common dream. Their magic is no longer part of the weave of my life but it has taught me new, special patterns.
Midnight disappeared in the
space between dark nights of spring. No one saw her leave, no one
quite recalls the last time she was home. I look for her in the green
of eyes but she is never there. I imagine she must be running now
in slippery breezes. I keep my windows open. She is always
welcome with me.