I often think of your mother's white cat.
How, at the end, her hair was matted and her movement slow. No one wanted physical contact with her but that was all she craved.
The only place you dared touch was the little triangle between her eyes down to her nose. That was enough for her. Enough to go through the night and wake the next day.
Until, at last, she trudged under the bushes and disappeared.
My cat has curled up beside me. He hums at my nearness, loves to have his back or some part of him touching me. It was not always thus.
He is getting old and I wonder at his change in behavior. How he no longer snaps at me out of fear, how he seems to truly sense when I am unwell. I wonder how many more years we have together.
I used to hate the white spot on his little triangle, the one that mars the otherwise symmetrical markings on his face. Used to think that, besides that spot, he was quite a handsome cat, for trailer trash.
It is now my favorite thing about him. I pet it, as if it gives him power. As if it prolongs the time we have together.
He owns me as much as I own him.
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