I was going to write :
Another morning has gone by.
Every and each morning is unique.
The similarities are apparent.
This morning, a bumble bee is flying around, exploring the flowers on the hanging baskets, one after the other, tasting the nectar.
These specific acts did not happen yesterday.
The bee was present, too.
Her movements, her route, were singular.
Although past the summer solstice.
Days are, already, becoming shorter.
Enough to notice.
Yannick cat was on my lap, earlier.
She enjoys days like today.
Mild, breezy, the sun just hiding behind a veil of detailed clouds.
The chirp of, mostly, sparrows colouring the morning.
As their flying to and from the feeders do, too.
In spite of our presence.
After an early morning, breakfast consumed.
The trees dancing with the wind.
The school girl has already gone.
She is very young.
Scorching sunshine, almost unbearable.
Early in the morning.
Yesterday late afternoon electrical semi-tropical storm.
Rain cascading from the heavens, troubled.
Dark clouds blackened the once blue sky to the score of ominous rambling and lighting.
Rain, rain, and more rain…
Cats looking from the safety of being behind the windows, with slight concerned expressions.
Oblivious to the illumination provided by lighting, followed by the deep cry of the sky.
I won’t be watering the garden for a day or so.
Yannick climbed onto the open top pane of the window, following the unfolding drama.
Afternoon has taken over, chasing away those dark clouds.
So, I will tell a bit about this day.
I woke up to find several cats on my bed. I closed my eyes, I opened them again to find different cats…
Old age, or what?
Pinocho was a cat. Romano, in Spanish (Tabby).
My recollections of him are rather vague. I may have been seven or eight year old. My dad had died not long. I never saw him dead. Or his body. Although I saw him in my mind. Or his ghost, as he was never visibly present in my mind, for what I can recollect. Nightmares, night after night, to the point I was often afraid to go to sleep. Going up on an elevator, up, up, up… Forever, until I woke up… usually before I got lost…
Sweaty? That is what is written in novels. However, I do remember the sense of anguish, always present, even now, nearly seventy years later.
When I close my eyes in the night, there is always a trepidation lurking. Not acknowledged, but present.
There is a cup pf Tanzanian coffee on my desk whilst I am writing. Digging, in my memory, all these years later.
A distillation of what really happened then. Tinted by my love of cats, my lifelong friends.
And a glass of Amaretto. Tipsy, not drunk.
Cats are hovering around me. Springy is curled on my feet. Pinocho is somewhere on the back of my memories. On a train, in a sort of basket, or something like that. Bella made her spot near me, while Domi, in her elegant pose, her nose in the pad.
There was a dog, too. I hardly remember him, or her. Kept barking at Pinocho, looking down unperturbed on top of the kitchen cupboards.
Pinocho was the first cat that I clearly recollect, although there were others before him. I can vaguely feel them, rather than remembering.
I saw a photograph of me, a toddler with his head shaved, in the family album. I was infected with the tiña (ringworm), by a cat, too.
There was a train, going to Quilicura. To the fundo of my great uncle had near Santiago. The coaches were American made, rather elegant. We had to climb unto an open platform before entering into the coach itself.
So quiet is the evening. Through the window I see snow on the ground, although already melting.
Pinocho went with us on that journey to Quilicura. Al some time, my memory fails me, he escaped and run through the length of the train, us following chasing him. My cousin was with us, too. I was afraid that he would jump out of the train, although the carriages had already been closed.
Yannick is running around, the afternoon madness overcoming her.
Snow, untouched, a blanket of silence punctured by the occasional chirping of sparrows…
Until it was violated by foot steps, the magic gone.
Enjoying his first snow…
(although not from a holiday brochure)
there were whiteness all around
Russian winter arrived to Hull
kept looking through the glass