My darling, you are an original.
You must hold this tightly against all evidence.
Many will praise your beauty, but you cannot live off looks. Their eyes are a glancing blow to what lies beneath. You are soil and soul.
You are an original of your species.
This is not because you were painted with snowcaps, the first to bloom. Long before the crocuses and the daffodils, your white blossoms warm the promise between your paws. Spring has not abandoned us. Life gathers strength beneath the snow.
It is not because the artist dropped the brush upon reaching your tail. White Queen Anne’s lace gave way to the whole garden, calico cackling all the colors. You won the party game, “pin the tail on the cat.” You laughed so hard, you had to paw your giggling mouth, and you left a peony spot.
It is not because they call you Copycat, a name that could bring shame, if you were capable of it. Did you try to follow other kittens whose tails matched their bodies, only to wake alone in starlight? Were you the late bloomer of the litter, learning from the swift how to play and groom and gallop?
It is not even because you have reached old age, though that would be enough to render you matchless. We think glistening is reserved for the dewy young, but we are backwards. It is the old cat with the wiry white fur and the garden party tail who confers with the comets. It is after age eight that you realize the improbable splendor of one life.
It is not quite because you have overcome, although survivals are as singular as snowflakes. The years have been many since the kitten with the mismatched tail was paired with the wrong person. You don’t blame them. You don’t blame time for rumpling what was soft. You live as though you know that “yes” and “no” make backroom deals. You live as though you know the best is yet to come.
You are an original of your species.
It is because you have been loved, which is to be resurrected repeatedly. You are all the Copycats you have been, a single illuminated manuscript. You are all the chapters still smooth and blank, looseleaf added to the end of the book by your foster father. He would not rest until you came to the garden. We would not always describe Tabby’s Place that way, but to see you bloom is to feel good soil between our fingers.
My darling, you are an original, and you are teaching us that “old” and “new” can weave flower crowns for each other. You are crowned with a peony spot and a lively love. Our roots are entwined. Hold your tail high.