Made of stories
I would like to kiss the New Year, but I can’t reach that high. I would like to glimpse what’s next, but I can’t open my eyes that wide. So I will simply sit here, on the floor, with the cats, telling stories.
Forever loved: Crinkle Bob
I don’t typically write eulogies for adopted cats. But there was nothing typical about Crinkle Bob.
Spill light
When you fall over (and it is “when,” not “if”), what do you spill out? Anger? Compassion? Resentment that you are not eating enough mini meatballs? (I will let you guess which two out of those three apply to cats.)
Epilogues: October 2022
O! Planet October, how did you enter our orbit? There we were, Septembering along like woolly bear caterpillars, when POOF! you filled the sky and turned our world upside-down. And now, O! October! Here we are with stars in our eyes and stomachs full of butterflies and so many shouts and sighs, I don’t know […]
All fours
Where did you learn to crawl? Where did you learn to walk? Where will you learn to crawl again? Where will you be when you learn how much Fergie hates the song Fergalicious?
Joys and concerns
What if we all sat around the fireplace and pulled oysters and pearls from our week? The cats would strongly prefer that we pull all the catfish out of all the bayous and dance like Kokopelli around the bonfire, but they’ll accept this pale substitution.
Kitty’s Cosmos: Reset
Every several years, many among us do it. Mostly because we have to. Mostly because of planned obsolescence. We need to upgrade our devices.
Guest post: Weaving
Our lives are a tightly woven fabric, with the full richness best viewed from a distance and with kind eyes. Our most magnificent works are those done with the greatest cooperation, care, and that kindness that softens even the harshest gaze.
C.B. radio
One of the greatest moments of my life is recreating itself as we speak. No one should be so lucky as to live through this twice. But then, no one could ever deserve the delight of knowing Crinkle Bob.
Epilogues: April 2022
April, April, you merry little month. You bring us wicker baskets of blossoms, and wry wailing winds to whirl them all away.