Memoir 8

Her tail brushes my leg in staccato strokes,

leaving behind a sense of energy- like wet paint.

Her meow says she’s hungry, but it doesn’t fully register until she nibbles at my hand while I rub the back of my palm against the soft, feathered fun along her forehead.

My partner suggests she’s getting “Hangry,” so I open a can of tuna and gently pour out some of the juice, saving enough to keep the rest fresh.

Meanwhile, I’m running through storylines for each chapter in my head, trying to decide which suggestions to keep and which to discard. I’ve started one that includes her.

Now she’s outside in the cool spring air, and soon she’ll be at the window again, meowing, watching with wide, round pupils and waiting for someone to get up and let her in.

The clouds are purple blotted ink across a canvas sky,

the sunset fades from orange to yellow;

bright pink to pastels.

And we sit with my face resting on your leg

both of us watching and you talking about

how we should keep our water covered at night and only speak kind words.

I agree, and hope to live in this moment a bit longer as the sun hides behind the sillhouette of the mountain outside our bedroom window.