My Cheshire Cat

I read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel Through the Looking Glass during the summer of 1986, when I was only ten. These two novels really struck my imagination, and, in a way, affected my entire life; I was genuinely impressed by the strange dreamlike situations this little girl had to face.
I liked Alice’s character because she always tried to look normal, serious, rational, that is “adult”, in such a crazy world. Her determination made me smile.

And I was fascinated by a lot of other characters in these two books: surely by the Mad Hatter, and the March Hare, by the funny Dormouse, the pompous Caterpillar, the stressed-out, even neurotic White Rabbit, by the twins Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and the fragile Humpty Dumpty.

But my favourite has always been the Cheshire Cat. Since I was a very young girl I used to stare at the crescent moon and imagined it was his grin.

“I didn’t know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I didn’t know that cats could grin.” “They all can,” said the Duchess; “and most of ’em do.” (Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, 
ch. 6)
I loved this character because he was the only one to teach Alice his precious lessons about how that mad land worked.

A few years ago I saw the Cheshire Cat here in my town. I gazed at him with a puzzled face: was I dreaming? He was standing there at the corner of a square, glaring at me not very friendly, and mumbling inarticulate phrases I couldn’t understand. I came closer,  smiling in my most polite way, and tried to start a conversation. All he said was nonsense, that’s why I laughed a lot. 

He didn't really look like a cat, but like a pale-faced man in his thirties, with crazy green eyes, which reminded me no doubt of the Cheshire Cat's shining green eyes.
“The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.” (Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, ch. 6) Indeed, every time this man saw me from a distance, he grinned with all his many teeth.

Now please, don’t think I fell in love with this guy or even felt attracted to him. I'm not talking about a silly love story, no time for stuff like this. I am talking about something higher. And I was curious.

Every now and then I bumped into him. He appeared, gave me a quick moment of funny craziness and suddenly disappeared, and then he reappeared again whenever he liked. Once he told me we shared the same soul, and I wondered if I was him or if he was me. That made no difference. And this was definitely an “alician” self-talk: maybe this Cheshire Puss was a sort of mirror where I could better understand myself; or maybe he escaped from Wonderland in order to rescue me. 

I was always full of joy when I had the chance to talk and laugh with him. 

But then the coronavirus arrived and the quarantine started. I couldn’t be Alice anymore, I couldn’t indulge myself in Wonderland. I had to enter the adult world and keep calm for my kids’ serenity and for my job. So the Cat vanished. Or I vanished, I don’t know, it depends on the point of view. Sometimes, very often, I miss him, and silent tears roll down my cheeks. I try to chat with other people, men, women, friends, colleagues, but no one gives me the same childish emotions he gave me. I don’t know if I hope or fear to see him again. I think I’m afraid to find out that everything has changed.

I don’t even know his name. I like to call him “my Cheshire Cat”. 

I’m pretty sure that when I happen to look into the right mirror, I’ll finally see him again, because I’ll finally find myself. And this time my adventure in Wonderland will never end.