Meowcholalia

Aurora placed the saucer on the tiled kitchen floor. The saucer was full of kitten food.

She had found the tiny ginger kitten in the parking lot of her apartment complex the previous afternoon. He had had no collar and none of the neighbors claimed him.

Her heart had already melted, re-solidified and been tied by its strings to him. Apollo. That was what she decided to name him. The name had hit her that morning—the first rays of sun slicing through the blinds and landing on the white and orange stripes of his fur. It had been a record rainfall Spring, with a joint-aching 28 straight days of rain. Until yesterday afternoon. When she had walked into the parking lot, the first sight of the sun had hollowed a chasm in the clouds and the world glittered like champagne flutes under a candelabra. That was when she saw him, a tiny raindrop dripping off the end of his nose.

Apollo gave a yawn from his makeshift bed of old blankets. His toes clicked on the tile as he trotted over to his food. He encircled Aurora’s legs, purred gratefully, then chowed down.

His meal complete, he looked up at Aurora. He let out a meow. The first she had heard.

“So you do have a voice, then!” she laughed.

The meow was followed by another. And another. A whole LP album of meows ensued. Apollo brought the sun and music. Rain and silence would never weigh so heavy again.