White Bear

for Homes

One morning, I woke up and knew that I was not myself—a cat with yellow eyes purred beside me, one I’d never seen before. I spoke to the cat from a mouth that was not my own, in a voice I’d never heard. I said, “Hi, my darling,” and “You are nice,” and the words sounded small.

                The bed was comfortable, which was a relief, but I wondered what had happened. The cat stretched out, then sprang from the bed. I crawled behind it into the bathroom and gazed into the mirror when I stood up. I discovered that I was astonishingly beautiful and young. When I tried to smile, my reflection would not return the gesture and I staggered back into the bed, clutching my stomach because it was filled with sadness and I felt hollow. I began to cry but, over what, I could not say, only that it was a great, grievous matter and that the difficulty I had in describing it made it the more dreadful.

The cat purred beside me. I said, “Why aren’t you a crocodile instead?” 

It clawed a corner of the pillow, swatted white feathers from a small split in the seam, hissing. I could feel the feathers leaving from beneath my head and I grew tired watching them float above me. When I awoke, I was myself again, in a hard bed I understood was my own.

                This happened several years ago. Since then, I’ve resolved to take better care of myself, to never feel so hollow again. I purchase local fruits and vegetables. I go for long bike rides. I started writing letters to prisoners. I correspond regularly with one inmate who calls himself White Bear. I’ve described to White Bear my experience and for several months, we’ve tried to determine who I might have been. Once, White Bear sent me a letter that was an outline of his hand. I traced my hand and sent it to him. Then, he sent me an outline of his other hand and I sent him an outline of my other hand and we continued like this for a long time. Now, I’ve pieced him together. Now, I know how much space he’d occupy in a doorway.

                White Bear tells me that he has blue eyes and that one of them is so lazy it stares into the back of his head. He can grow a thick beard. He misses pancakes and sauerkraut. He robbed three bakeries, but did not shoot that man. I believe he is a much different person now. Today, I received a drawing of his ear. It was smaller than I thought and I could tell that it was sketched in a hurry, but it fit nicely in my palm. When I attached it to the outline of his head, it made perfect sense. He looks like an innocent man.