Sitting on my bed with a cat I named Chelsea. She was a present from the neighbors, just like the cat before, who died. I used to share the room with my brother, but after the renovations, he moved out, and the room was mine. I chose the colors: sky blue walls and royal blue trim. Blue was my favorite color. I had my bed pressed right up against the wall, next to a window, so I could look out. At leaves and branches and stars and clouds. Patches of blue sky. Rain. Snow. Birds and squirrels. The clapboards and shingles of the house next door. I would lie on my stomach and read, or draw pictures, or write the name of a boy I never spoke to over and over in a notebook. Like I was casting a spell. Like each repetition of his name claimed him a little bit more. Some days were harder than others. And on those days, Chelsea would study me with her magic marble eyes, stop napping, stop grooming, and come closer. Rub against me with a cat’s liquid grace. Or sniff my nose as though I were another cat. And I sort of was. I kind of am. Because this was family. She was family. There was no one else. Not like this. A cat will meet you in your stillness as though she’s been waiting for you there. Where you don’t have to do more, or be more. Looking out the window is enough. A deep breath in and a long breath out, enough. Letting your eyes close, falling asleep is enough. You are enough.
Published by msdeer
I am an interdisciplinary artist, slightly incognito here. View more posts