Wisteria

Most cats steer clear from the water's edge.

They'll go to  drink, maybe wash off their paws. But nobody goes too close - they  wouldn't want to end up soaked, fur bogged down, shivering in the wind.

Wisteria loves the water. And she always has, even before the battles, won and lost.  When she was just a kitten, she'd drift off from fights with her  littermates, scoldings from her mother, to stand angrily in shallow  puddles that nearly brushed her belly fur, letting the anger melt away  into the small ripples she'd create.

As she grew, the water grew  with her. When her companions stopped by the river to wash the remnants  of battle from their paws, she was there, standing in the center of the  river and letting the swift currents carry her sorrows away.

When  it was all over, a shaky peace established but so much lost, she'd  turned to the lakes, calm and still, to wash the pain out of her heart,  letting it sink silently beaneath the surface, resting onto pebbles and  sand until she could breathe again.

And after she'd run, the  ocean was there, crashing angrily against the cliffs. She'd stood deep  in its waters, screaming into the endless, open sea. The sea screamed  back, as the tides rolled angrily, crashing and raging against her pelt.  She let herself droop, wilting as her anguish was stolen by the seas -  as she could finally feel herself again.

Things are better these  days, in a new home, surrounded by new cats. It's easier to relax,  easier to drift without worry and return without reprimand. But whenever  pain or heartache resurfaces, the water remains there for her -  twinkling softly under the moonlight, lapping reassuringly at her paws  or rushing protectively through her fur. Nothing holds her laments  better than water. And for that, she will always be grateful.