Three Deer | Amelia Filloramo
The mean ginger cat never sits on my lap, but today he pads towards me without bribery,
vibrating an unusual rhythm of adoration. My mom told me he might.
Swaths of orange fur coat my palm as I stroke his back, bemused, but cautiously grateful.
His small paws knead my growing belly like a laying on of hands. After two losses, I tried not to look into signs. I didn’t tell the old woman next door or ask the ultrasound tech if she heard a
heartbeat. They said it wasn’t my fault. Still, self-restraint was penance. Even though it didn’t
quell the fear, it was something to do.
My mom thought some fresh air would be good for me, so we went to the countryside.
Exchanged the movement of the city for something slower. A long road with more trees than
houses. Trees that loomed over the cottage, threatening to consume it whole.
We brought the cat with us. He senses you in there, I think. I imagine your small hands
gripping his fur and catch myself smiling. I allow it, but just for a moment. He’s more tolerant of you. With my free hand on my belly, I whisper, I love you, my dear one. I sound just like her. The cat hops away as I stand and walk to the bathroom.
Who knew the color pink could be so cruel? That it wouldn't hurt until the next morning
but, when it did, it was worse than before. That I'd pick cat hair from my blouse while the paper
on the exam table alerted to my every movement. That, unfathomably, I had lost you again.
There is still some light between the leaves when we get home. My husband goes inside,
but I walk down the dirt road, dazed under a canopy of green.
Three deer approach the edge of the woods. They freeze when they witness me. I think
they are afraid but, as I stand there, empty and unmoving, the first boldly steps forward. Then the second. Third. Like past, present, and future. Father, son, and spirit. They don't spare me a
second glance as they duck into the safety of the trees on the other side.
There is nothing to jinx. I pull out my phone, type meaning of three deer crossing the
road into the search, but there isn’t any service out here. I place my free hand on the oak beside
me and close my eyes. For a moment, you are with me, then gone. Off to a different place. I
allow myself to hope it is a better one.
Amelia Filloramo is a yoga teacher living in New Hampshire, USA with her husband and two cats. She holds a B.A. in Comparative Literature from the University of Massachusetts Amherst.