The Inside Diaries

Catticus

After swimming and macaroons and tea, Tory donned an outfit brought with her as Melanija waited outside the bathroom, cracked open just an inch, lest the tiny child accidentally lock herself in—

"KITTY!" Melanija gave a start, realizing Catticus snuck in, now rubbing fluffy fur along the girl's ankles.

"Yeah, name's Catticus—"

"Why?"

"A book I read—"

"Was the book's name Catticus? What's a Catticus?"

"No, the main character—"

"Was Catticus?"

Melanija bit her lip, hiding a smile. "No. Atticus. A play on words—" though she doubted the girl understood what that meant, she noticed Tory nodding as if understanding.

Suddenly, she heard a pop—"Tory? Tory?" She opened the door only to discover the girl had vanished—

A crack later, a small voice spoke from the bedroom. "What are these?"

She raced there, to find Tory holding up printed paper—"manuscripts—things for...writing books. Lots and lots of books." Tory flung the paper in the air, Melanija leaping forth to catch them, placing them back on the desk as the girl continued her inquiries. "Who is that?"

Melanija hesitated. "A...good friend." Tory turned to face her.

"Do you want kids? How old are you—"

"Tory, whoa, those are very personal questions—" Melanija took a deep breath. She was the adult, after all. "Hey, Tory, let's go for a walk. Now."

"Ok!" the child chirped, reaching for the writer's hand as they strode back to the living room, then out the door, past the stop sign inveigled in hibiscus, the palm trees, their fluttering branches creating sharp silhouettes overhead. "Where're we going?"

"Exploring," Melanija said simply, envisioning a terraced garden, grassy plateaus, each stepping upward and downward along the other in an ethereal vision of pristine paradise—

They rounded the corner, and they spotted it. The garden, trees nearly fifty feet tall.

"Komorebi," Melanija whispered.

"What's komorebi?" Tory asked, ever-curious.

"Komorebi is the light that shines between the shadows of trees. Or something like that," replied the lady, spotting deep emerald leaves, shaped as though laser-cut to perfection, their chlorophyll-imbued surfaces turning to olive, then glittering peridot at their uppermost sun-kissed tips. "Go play—"

Tory's mouth dropped open. "Really?"

Melanija realized that wherever Tory was currently being raised, she hadn't been given nearly enough outdoors recreation time. "Really. But no tree-climbing!" she yelled as Tory ran ahead, arms outstretched, laughing and shrieking all the while.

One plateau, another hill, then a gentle tumble through soft lawn, down, downward still—until the little girl dusted herself off, realizing there was a treehouse in the distance, Melanija panting, racing to catch up. "Tory—wait for me!"

To her credit, the child paused mid-step until the writer had caught up. "That's private property—"

Tory's brow furrowed. "What's private property?"

"It doesn't belong to us—it belongs to someone else—we can't just up and walk onto it—"

"Oh. But we can look at it, right?"

Melanija smiled, reaching for Tory's hand. "Yeah. We can. Let's count how many floors—and balconies—and trees—"

Fifteen minutes later, they crossed the opposite garden side, spotting—

"Is that private property?" Tory sure learned fast.

Both walking closer, Melanija shook her head. "It's a cultural center. Definitely public property." They stepped inside the sandstone-hued building, with its high arches and palm tree silhouettes, Tory admiring her reflection in the grey checkerboard marble floors. They ambled toward what appeared to be an abstract art piece, in the shape of a painter's palette sans color, with eight or so vaguely orange circular fixtures jutting outward. "What do you think that looks like, Tory?"

The child squinted and reflected for a few moments before responding. "I think...it looks like a bunch of scrambled egg whites. And the yolks out. My aunt makes those. Turns the yolk into custard tarts."

Melanija smiled. "That sounds delicious."

"What about you, Melanija?" It seemed unnerving the child should use her first name, but then again, that's all she ever went by. "What do you see?"

"I think...it's a painter's palette. You know...ummm...when someone draws a picture, uses colors. The colors come from somewhere." How would she describe a palette for a preschool (if that) aged girl? "But it's blank. There's no colors."

Tory glanced upward, squeezing the lady's hand. "Do you get lonely?"

Tory and her psychoanalytic questions. This child..."No more than the average person," Melanija spoke aloud. "But enough about me—this is supposed to be a fun day for us."

An hour or so later, they returned to Melanija's abode, up the stairs and into the brightly-lit living room, where they napped between a very content, loudly purring Catticus. After some time, Melanija quietly crept away to her bedroom desk, retrieving arts and crafts materials—just as Tory woke up.

"Origami and art?" Melanija offered the multicolored paper as Tory positively beamed.