Missing Katie

I am in my usual place, the window.  Life has not been exciting since Mom and Mama Rainy shut down the International Cats ONLY Space Station and forced our return to the casa.  Our shuttles are dismantled, as is my spirit, stripped of freedom and adventure.

This morning I learned that our Minnesota space station team members have been abandoned at the Townhouse, left at the hands and mercy of some stranger.  It seems like a lifetime ago that Lt. Glovatsky and I were in another galaxy, gazing upon one another amidst the stars.  Now we are reduced to this.  

I have begun rereading the poems of Federico Garcia Lorca in my sadness, and this one in particular reminds me of dear Katie, whom I think of often...  

Ballad of the Moon, Moon

The moon came into the forge

in her bustle of flowering nard. The little boy stares at her, stares.The boy is staring hard.  In the shaken air the moon moves her arms,and shows lubricious and pure,her breasts of hard tin."Moon, moon, moon, run!If the gypsies come,they will use your heart to make white necklaces and rings.""Let me dance, my little one.When the gypsies come,they'll find you on the anvil with your lively eyes closed tight."Moon, moon, moon, run!I can feel their horses come.""Let me be, my little one,don't step on me, all starched and white!"
Closer comes the the horseman,drumming on the plain.The boy is in the forge;his eyes are closed.Through the olive grove come the gypsies, dream and bronze,their heads held high,their hooded eyes.
Oh, how the night owl calls,calling, calling from its tree!The moon is climbing through the sky with the child by the hand.
They are crying in the forge,all the gypsies, shouting, crying.The air is viewing all, views all.The air is at the viewing. 

Dear Katie, hold strong.  I will find a way.  I will come for you.

Signed, Paco Atherton