Made of stories
I would like to kiss the New Year, but I can’t reach that high. I would like to glimpse what’s next, but I can’t open my eyes that wide. So I will simply sit here, on the floor, with the cats, telling stories.
Call me greedy
Do it. Call me “greedy.” I’m not daring you. I’m not seeking absolution. I’m delighting in it. Do it!
I love you, Hoopla Green
I need the world to know. I need the galaxies to know. But most of all, bewildered sprite, I need you to know.
Epilogues: June 2023
Ask the experts: did we fail or prevail at Tabby’s Place this June? Any month involving the Strawberry Moon would seem a guaranteed success. But the experts are not so sure.
Wild balls of brightness
I sincerely, obnoxiously believe it is totally, terrifyingly all up to me. Clearly I have not yet spent enough time in the presence of cats.
Still and ever
There was a time when kinfolk cloistered in Brooklyn brownstones or Omaha homesteads, Italian and Swedish singing across the clotheslines and generations. There was a time when Suite C was Suite C, and cats of a certain fatness stuffed the years like rollatini, together for (a) forever or (b) until someone slimmed their way elsewhere. […]
Memorial mercies
Holy moly, humans. We’re a holey bowl of needers, aren’t we? Fragile doilies. Patchwork jeans. Slim slices of Swiss. But we are surrounded by creatures who consider themselves the living equivalents of chunk cheese. They are more than happy to patch our holes with melty mercy.
Pearly girls
We were not all born to be comforting beverages. Once we get over this, we can get to the business of being pearls.