The Layers of Life

He is like Annie, our cat.

Annie stands in front of the mirrored doors to our clothes closets, and tried to figure out who that cat is, and whether I am in front of her or behind her. It is almost too much for an old cat's head.

Nathaniel looks north, through the kitchen window, and the generations of earth and family layer in front of him, like the lightning and downpour over Oro Valley, and like the old people whom he visits regularly. It is almost too much for a young kid's head.

It isn't too much. It is being sorted, almost minute by minute, and organized, probably peculiarly at first, but finally with a sophistication that will amaze even himself.

Annie is content with another can of cat food. Nathaniel will have food, too, but he will demand that the whole layered range of mountains and human perception make sense. They are old, those mountains, older than us all but, at night, the stars do shine, too.

He is like Annie, our cat, and so much more.

He is napping now. "Would you look in at the baby?", Mari asked. I did.

"He is sleeping," I said, "and breathing, and dreaming about Rene Descartes."

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