Late fall. The air cooled for a few weeks.
We left the windows open. Peals of laughter from the playground across the street. Horns far off.
Lily took to sitting at the window in the warm breeze.
I’d drink coffee in the morning and take her photo. Hard not to when she’s like that, limned in gold.
I bought her a contraption on the internet. Suction cups. Wire. Plastic piping.
Now I have a cat sized trampoline protruding into the living room.
The curtain gapes around it. A cat fort.
A few days here and there too warm for her to bake in the sun. It’s been an odd winter in New York.
Sixty degree days and soft green stems of flowers popping up at the park.
On those days she retreats to the dog bed.
The dog sighs so loud I can hear him from the other room.
She watches pigeons tap dancing and crapping on our upstairs neighbor’s window unit air conditioner.
She watches the kids file in to the school across the street.
She rubs her face along the wires. I found a fallen out whisker on the floor. Thick like a quill or a fish bone.
It’s January now and the window fogs up in the morning. Beads of water drip down it.
She is there all the time because in winter the radiators come on and the perch is directly above.
She lays there, her head tucked to her chest. Slow deep breaths.
Her face softens and she melts into the hammock, heavy with bliss.