I miss them. Days I’d be washing utensils deliberately slowly, my mind all over the place and nowhere all at once, yet in no hurry to go anywhere or do anything else. Just cup after cup, deep inside and round, then upside down, out, round, and on and on and on.
And hearing activity in the kitchen; perhaps hoping something’s cooking, she’d hop on the window sill outside and stare at me with her pale green eyes. She would mew, I’d smile and let the tap run on. And she’d lick her fur, blink severally at me and then contemplating a noise too far away to follow, she’d lie down on the window sill.
And I’d wash the utensils on and on, the water washing coolly over my hands and cups, and the foamy soap spiraling down the drain- and she; she would be lying on the window, unperturbed by the glass cups and plates clanging as I arrange them, or even by cars revving up on the road just outside. She would be calm in all this as cats only are, and her chi as she purrs, would shush my wandering thoughts and wrap me up in a somewhat timeless bubble of just being.
If an elephant in the room means a humongous unresolved issue, then a cat on the window, for me, means the contentment and inner peace of a nomadic spirit. And I know for sure wherever I go; a cat curled up next to me will always calm my restless soul.