Thursday, February 19, 2015
I fall asleep on the love seat watching TV. The chocolate-point Siamese curls up to sleep on top of my legs. He is heavy and I am reluctant to make him move when I wake up a couple of hours later to get into bed.
It is a four-poster bed with heavy cover. It is not the crocheted bedspread Granny made, but it is the same, from an estate sale years ago. Thick twine, once white, now aged, torn in a couple of places, a small stain, a small accident, a mistake made decades ago. The cotton weight is comforting. The cat follows, jumps to the cedar chest and up onto the bed. Sometime in the night, he prowls. Sometimes I hear him crying or conversations he has with the aloof black female, Athena.
In time past he would jump to the bed and look in our faces. He would find my husband and curl on top of him. The cat always chose him.
The pink dawn barely seeps through the sheer curtains. The cat always rises first, makes his rounds, and returns to bed. He walks up to my face and I raise the cover so that he can snuggle next to me. He purrs, against my body, grateful for the warmth.
Even if it is just me.