The Aristocats Record

The Aristocats Record

He gave it to me once—

a record, light as breath,

its grooves catching songs

the way hearts catch memories.

I was seven—

writing letters full of smiles

and spelling mistakes,

trying to hold everyone’s sorrow

with sentences that leaned toward light.

Now, decades later,

I still have the record—

a circle that hums with history,

his hands somewhere in its shine.

And he kept my letter,

the crooked words of a little girl

who wanted no one to be sad,

who believed that love

was all the good things.

When I lower the needle,

the room fills with tiny echoes—

Paris cats singing,

a father’s kindness turning beneath time,

and the laughter of a little girl

who sang every song beside him.

I listen,

and it’s as if the song remembers me—

as if gratitude was always the melody

he taught me to play by heart.

© Gilda Wray. All rights reserved.