Always a Borrowed House (Evening Song)

I am sleep-eyed smiling at this green bottle of beer and these old timey songs and the smell of pasta about to be consumed, a flanneled, bearded companion banging around in the cabinets behind me.

The cheese grater, they’ve got to have a cheese grater. 

[It was in the spice cabinet.]

There are drawbacks to living one’s summer in borrowed houses– for instance, we never can find things when we need them– spoons, spatulas, lids for the pot that overflows. But there are benefits as well– like my hair, tousled and wet and falling over my Cats The Musical shoulders from my post-ride outdoor shower in this most recent, comfortably-luxurious cat house. We’ve spent the last few months moving around one block of this tiny, crooked town and this house makes three– and four, in terms of borrowed cat buddies.

More on them later.

In the meantime, though I am jobless and don’t live anywhere and am plagued with thoughts of great confusion and worry, there are times my body swoons with love for this place, like racing out of the Allegrippis trails in this evening’s fading sunlight, the whole forest smelling of Halloween smoke and rotting leaves and mud kicking up under our bikes, on our legs and in our hair, laughing, circling the gravel parking lot under a thumbnail of moon and feeling like a kids after soccer practice on those nights late in summer where I’d peel the long red socks off, feel the indents they left on my furry shins, stink up the car, and Mom would stop for ice cream on the way home, the dark woods humming with bugs, eyes, life.

Riding home tonight my hands were sticky with the ice cream a twenty-five year old consumes when another kind person has bought it for her, and with the windows down and Hunny 106 pouring out of the stereo it all seemed good and possible.

It is late, I am sleepy, and I have yet to wrap up our New Mexican adventures. To hold you over, here are some recents of Cally and some of her fine associates.






Goodnight to dear ones. May you all have window fans and screen doors and fish wind-chimes and borrowed cats to slink about in a borrowed yard, their green eyes narrowing at everything in the damp grass, and beyond.


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.
This entry was posted in Charming Anecdote, The Cats of Others, The Cats of Summer and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Always a Borrowed House (Evening Song)

  1. Pingback: The Desert, In Conclusion | welltailoredsuit

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