Four-Pawed Balm
HAVANA TIMES — Miracles don’t arrive surrounded by glowing halos and fireworks; sometimes they come so subtly that we don’t even notice. That night we were heading home, we never imagined that someone was waiting for us. As is customary on this island frozen in time, the streets were dark and only our footsteps could be heard. But in the midst of that silence came a meow—an insistent sound, a call straight to the heart.
My husband reacted first; his rescuer instinct kicked in, and when that happens, he finds it impossible to ignore fragility. Using his phone’s light, he searched among the trash and rubble for the source of the lament. He placed that tiny creature in my arms—so tiny that for a moment I thought her eyes might not even be open yet. She stopped meowing, went still, warm and trusting. Hunger, cold, and loneliness were over for her.
At home I had no milk; fried fish and sausage were the only things I could offer. She showed her gratitude with a voracious appetite and a little belly swollen from eating so much. Choosing a name was easy: small and fierce as she was, she could only be called Aria, like the character from Game of Thrones.
I had never cared for a cat before. In my home there were always dogs—smart, loyal, and noisy. Adapting to the change has been a constant learning process. Cats don’t obey; they don’t ask permission—they negotiate and claim space.
From the very first day, Aria made it clear that she had come to occupy an important place in our lives. She has stolen our bed, a corner of the kitchen, and a huge piece of our hearts. She doesn’t beg for my care; she demands it while watching with those big green eyes that evaluate everything. Sometimes I feel she’s testing me—that it isn’t us who are training her, but she who handles us at her whim.
In the midst of this dark, hopeless life, she has become an unexpected balm. She makes us laugh with her antics and pointless sprints. She plays ball with my husband, throws herself onto the mop on the floor every time I clean the house, and answers to her name when I call her.
I’m convinced she isn’t an ordinary cat. She respects the rules, though at times she challenges us a little. She has understood which areas are off-limits: not climbing onto the kitchen counter, not going outside, not visiting the neighbors, and never touching the fish tanks. It’s comforting to see how she moves within those boundaries; it’s as if she needed order after having known chaos.
Aria came into our lives without warning, without promises, without future plans—but she brought us another purpose to fight for. Perhaps love is that: some kind of silent act that appears when least expected, claims a space without asking permission, and decides to stay.
Read more from Fabiana del Valle’s diary here at Havana Times.