Cats and peonies on a thigh

The snow has finally let go of the Kasumi pass, and the carrier from the valley came up on Tuesday with two sacks of rice and a rumour that the old peony keeper at the temple has died. I told him that could not be true. I have walked past her garden every week since the spring I arrived, and her cats still sleep in it as if nothing in the world could ever move them.

Those cats are the reason I am writing. The grey one with the torn ear has taken to sitting on my step each morning, and the striped one, the one who curls with her chin tucked under her tail, sleeps in the bed of pale pink peonies by the stream as though she were part of the flowers. I tried to draw her on the back of a tax form. Every line came out too heavy, so she ended up looking like a stone the peonies had grown around.

I went up to the temple yesterday to ask about her. The keeper only laughed and said the cats belong to whoever is patient enough to sit still. So I sat on the wet step for an hour with my pencil, and when I looked up, the striped cat was watching me from between the leaves, her eyes narrowed, and the grey one had climbed onto the wall above her.

I think I will stay one more winter. Tell Mama the pass is open and I am well, and that I have finally learned to draw something that looks back at me.

Yours always, Marta