Will never forgive this year for stealing Maska away and leaving me bereft. She was my daft baby who stuck her nose inside all the pots in the garden as if her fortune was hidden inside them, awaiting her.
She sat one whole week atop the gas stove, for no reason at all and did not cook even one dish for me there. She was giving me a lesson in learning to keep away from cooking and to live on takeaways for a whole week perhaps.
Yesterday another gloomy walk around this new, strange place frozen with memory’s icy barbs brought me to a street where an orange kitten, stray, alone, sat on the stone steps of a meat shop viewing the world before her with the serenity all cats possess. It was a noisy, crowded, dank street, loud and dismal. But the little kitten sat there and oddly began to warm up the cold throbbing inside me. Her solemn demeanor in her dreary surroundings seeped into me like a frail sleeve from one of hope’s discarded torn dresses.
When she was tinier I had seen a little boy throwing stones at her as she ran away from him. It added to the stones inside me. Now she seemed better, and not thin, as if she was being fed. But a stray is always a worrying sight. The streets are never kind for very long to them. But despite this truth, the little orange ball of fur who possessed nothing at all, was the only entity who could slip inside my crushed self, during this stunned & stunted time of missing and mourning Maska.