Something About Mary

*Isla*

Ginger.

The story of my cat gave me pause to think about everything that I’d learned about myself. I distinctly remembered that cat now that my parents had reminded me. I didn’t have many memories at all from my childhood, and most of the ones I did have were vague. A flicker of a face, laughing on a swing, standing outside and staring up at a large tree, opening a present. Those types of memories didn’t give me much context for where I was, who I was, or what I was doing.

But seeing this picture had jarred memories in me that hadn’t entered my mind for so long. They were still there, though. I remembered the cat. I remembered playing with her, how sweet she was, how her fur felt beneath my fingers.

I didn’t remember her dying, though. And I certainly didn’t remember her coming back to life.

“After that,” Mom continues, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “After that, everything sort of fell apart.”

My dad reaches over and squeezes her hand, and I can see that he is emot