Because sometimes you have to post a picture of your cat. Nkwe Pirelli. Pirellikins, Puss-Puss. Chunkey Monkey. Pudding Cat. Little Shit. Kit Kat. My Boooooy. I'd kill anyone who hurt him.
Now you know all our secrets.
He is staring at a mourning dove on the terrace. Which is why we cannot leave him unattended, outside. Dove killer. Quick, effective, proud. Devastating.
The sunflowers are from Alice Austen House, on Staten Island, where some of them are due to be removed soon. So I got to pick them. I've been volunteering weekly in the garden there since August 26th last year.
When I got home from pulling weeds that first day I received the impossible message via WhatsApp that my friend Don had died, dropped off a mountain. Calls followed. From Canada, to Cape Town - the web of friends. Calls with someone I'd never met, his death confirmed by this kind stranger whose day was six hours further advanced than mine. Patiently answering my disbelief. Unbelievable and unacceptable. Impossible to imagine how his wife, our friend Rosie, was living each moment as she learned. I sat in a ball on this daybed. The Frenchman coming home to wreckage.
The cat, the cushions, the sunflowers, the circles we walk. The flowers we grow.
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