She talks to cats and they talk back because even cats get lonesome. Perhaps she play Elvis records… or maybe Roy Orbison… dances by the sink while washing dishes… and is careful not to trip over the cats. It is the peculiarity of life that she takes better care of the cats than she does of herself.
After church she waits by the doors and smiles at the congregation… she is the one waving goodbye as people rush home or head out shopping. They nod to her without seeing her, but they never speak. It is inconvenient for them… she is inconvenient for them. After, she walks the path along… through the cemetery… across the crushed browned leaves… by the stones with the names that she remembers… she speaks to the dead then goes home and talks to her cats.I do not know her name… I have never heard it spoken… there is no "Cat Lady" in the phone book. I am the visitor… the outsider… the transient passer-by who comes on the bus, and leaves on the bus, in a cloud of dust I wear no halo… I say no prayers… for I have no dominion. When we speak I shall have no answers.
2 comments:
Thanks for visiting me on No Chickadees. Your writing is beautiful. Always a little sad but permeated with light, like worn lace curtains. Lovely.
How like furniture we can be… and yes, I like the imagery of the draperies. Eyes are but windows to the great unknown or to the soul… depending on which side you stand. And once in a while the windows show us both.
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