On my forty-third Easter, I had my first real conversation with my cousin. I see her twice a year, and I am intimidated by her, which is why this had not happened before. I am also the kind of animal who tells people when I am intimidated by them, and that makes the spinach dip taste funny.

But it was Easter, and her father had assembled us at a long table in the part of Jersey that Bruce Springsteen is always singing about escaping. My aunt and uncle sat at the end, where they could pick waitresses out of the air like moths. My mother and stepfather sat in the middle, which is the correct location for people composed of integrity and nougat. My cousin and I sat tight against the mural of gondolas.

My cousin is fifty-five, and I am forty-three, but she runs twenty miles a week, which makes her younger. She commissions cherubs the size of ladybugs to paint individual copper frescoes on her hair. She would not admit this, but I sat close enough to confirm. It is the only explanation for bangs that shine like justice. 

My cousin is a physician’s assistant, which stations her a little lower than the angels. I write newsletters about litter box maintenance for a cat sanctuary. My cousin asks how long I have been working at the cat sanctuary. She begins to cough before I finish saying, “seventeen years.”

“That’s a long time!” 

My mother is too busy illuminating the proceedings to notice that I am really talking to my cousin. My mother was a school psychologist. She has been retired ten years. She still carries geodes in her purse in case some niece or stranger forgets what they look like on the inside. Multiple people allege she is the reason they still believe in a loving God. Now she is telling my aunt that every day is a scavenger hunt, and she does not want to get to heaven and find some storage unit of gifts she never opened. My mother is seventy-two, but she is a poet, which makes her younger than the toddler chanting the word “Grandpa” at the next table.

I ask my cousin what age she is inside, and she says fifty-five. I ask if she thinks we get to keep all the ages we have ever been, like a bouquet we can pull out and sniff anytime we need to be revived. I ask if she knows that I have been intimidated by her since we were seven and nineteen, and I thought she looked like Winona Ryder, but with kind eyes. I could tell, even then, that she was valiant. She laughs. What am I talking about?

Well, I am still seven, and she is still nineteen. I have been working at the cat sanctuary seventeen years, but I listen to a playlist called “I Am The Expletive Development Director” every morning to convince myself that I am competent. I ask if she realizes what I just did. It was not subtle. I reminded her that I am not just scraping litter boxes, I am a “Development Director.” I am trying to impress her. My cousin stabs Caesar to death in her salad and admits she is not really an animal person, but she sees how pets are life-giving to many of her patients!

I take advantage of her exclamation point. I am a healer too! I can explain. The cats are parables. People hide under the sofa if you yammer. You can’t just allege unconditional love out loud in the suburbs. But let them hold some ragamuffin, and the color comes back into their cheeks. Put a one-eyed calico in their arms, and they remember who they are. They don’t donate because we are low on kibble. They donate because they know they are strays. We are telling a big story, even when I am writing about freeze-dried treats. 

My cousin says I sure seem to have a lot of love to give. Is it true I’m not putting myself out there? My mother told her father that I am not doing the online dating thing. I tell my cousin that I will not curate myself again. But hasn’t it been two years? It has been two years. I tell my cousin that I am still rolling my own name around in my mouth. I eat strawberries in my nightgown and sing Jimmy Buffett’s lesser-known songs to my cats. I write passable nonfiction all weekend and take psychedelic trips to Walmart. 

My cousin says that she is talking herself into considering bald men, but it may be too late. I start burrowing under the blankets of my own limp jokes. I ask if she has insight into why every Walmart is stocked with unsavory characters. I ask if she might be interested in starting a band with me called The Savory Characters. 

Caesar is dead. I tell the waitress not to bring me the pasta course. Am I low-carbing it? My cousin says she admires that. She has admired my management of my type 1 diabetes since I was nine. I tell her that nothing makes me feel seven more than type 1 diabetes.

My cousin insists there are good men out there. This is an article of faith. There is her father and my stepfather. Her husband looked like Ray Liotta and considered himself Quality Control for her housecleaning and haircuts. My husband would not be seen with my tangerine parka and dangled the sentence, “If I ever hear you using that fancy vocabulary around my working-class family…” He was my first everything. She did not know that. I ask my cousin how we did this to ourselves. She peeks into my eyes long enough to say we did not do this to ourselves.

When the eggplants and chickens parmigiana come, my cousin’s father asks me to say the prayer. This is the only documented circumstance in which my words are few. Before the cat sanctuary, I studied to be a pastor. That was my plan. Back then, my prayers had appendices. All the cheese congealed before I finished thanking God for raising up a king in the order of Melchizedek. Now, I stammer. I thank Jesus for being alive and for inspiring Uncle Jeffrey to get us all to North Jersey, Aiii-men. No one complains about my pocket-sized prayers.

My cousin goes to a church called Liquid. I watch her peel back the mozzarella like a label and quarantine it on her salad plate. Where am I going to church these days? My mother is holding up her dinner plate so everyone can appreciate the avocado rosebuds. I contemplate asking my cousin if she agrees that avocado tastes like phlegm, but I refrain. I admit I am not going to church these days, unless you count writing stories and telling my vegan pagan donors that this world needs more people like them.

My cousin asks if I am involved with the hands-on care of the cats. I spend six minutes describing the mechanics of a “pill popper.” But no, I just do the writing. I report on threadbare kittens resurrected by colleagues’ scratched hands. I smuggle Samaritans into blog posts about feline lower urinary tract disease. I ask people for money and thank them for repairing the world. I am seven, so I am still excited after seventeen years and four thousand cats. Four thousand cats? Yes.

My mother is holding my aunt’s hands across the parmigianas. I ask if my cousin knows that I have always admired her. She was not just valiant, but patient. She snorts, but on her face a snort is less “warthog” than “seraph.” I thank her for playing Mad Libs with me at Thanksgiving, even though most of my answers were about hobbits, unicorns, and characters from The Brave Little Toaster. She tells me she does not remember this. I ask if she wants to play Mad Libs again this Thanksgiving.

My cousin asks if the other girls at the sanctuary and I ever get together and have sangria and talk about men. We should save up and travel together. It would do me good. I tell my cousin I want to see Paris, but I want to go alone so I can weep as often as needed. I tell my cousin I don’t know what goes into sangria. I ask if she knows that the only alcohol I have ever consumed was a sip of champagne at her wedding, when I was in sixth grade.  She did not know that.

I am not the black sheep of this family, although I like to think I am. I am the accidental blueberry in their red velvet cake. They cancel out my vote fivefold. I have a tattoo. But let’s be real. My tattoo is two cats hugging. I have a ninety-credit degree in Almighty God. They call it a “Master of Divinity,” although I always thought that sounded like a title the devil would assign himself in the cartoon adaptation of Revelation. I am not a black sheep. I am a tie-dyed feral cat who bursts out from under the deck singing, “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?”

My cousin asks me to pray for her friend from Liquid, who just became pregnant at forty-two. Anything can happen. I grab my cousin’s hand, even though she is still holding her fork, because I need to agree at a higher volume than words. The toddler is chanting “Grandpa” again, and my mother is savoring everyone in the room.