Coming Home

This morning, I woke in a wonderous land of green and trees and cold grey rain and memories of a warm snug bar where every person is someone you have loved, and we were forcibly tucked together in our chairs with our knees bumping under the old tables, all of us grinning and handholding and laughing over brimming glasses that eventually emptied and it felt as if nothing had changed. Then there was breakfast with eggs and toast and potatoes and onions that grew in the yard and I’m looking at while writing  and outside the world is filling up with rain and inside we’re wearing wool socks, and preparing to go to a wedding.

There are cats here.

Moxie and Miss Kitty consider us to be strange bedfellows indeed, and they snuck into our room here on the Lane of Loving to watch us sleep on our floor nest. Staying here with Dave and Suzanne always makes me wish I had some sort of animal object to love. Jake says no city dogs, no cat because we might move onto a boat someday, and no lizards because I’ll be too sad when they die. So I am relagated to love the pets of others, to bestow upon them many kisses and silly nicknames. Also, to blog about other people’s cats.

Like I’m doing right now.

 

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About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
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One Response to Coming Home

  1. Pingback: Beauty Sleep (to mend the things) | welltailoredsuit

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