We Don't Discuss Our Happiness.

All day, I thought to write about him. Instead, my cat tailed behind. Room to room, I went and left, absentmindedly. When she became tired, I sat behind her, admiring her baggy belly falling off the windowsill. Larger than most my friends’, her eyes show curiosity. I sat behind her, and for an hour thought about her small heart; how I love an animal more than anyone in my world. This love is significant; maybe I’m pathetic. She concentrated on the outside, better than I ever could. Sure, I can stare but thinking never pauses. Could she be as distracted? Splices of sight fall, rain too. There may not be any reality in this, nor a truth we are responsible for and yet, in recognition our bodies react with nostalgia. A creeping silence that rushes inward; a sound silencing the rest. Bodies are inconsistent, sensations inexplicable. We live with this failure all our lives. Do you know how often I let others and—worse—myself down by failing to communicate, by changing? The surface is dry on his hand. This isn’t how I am, how I feel. A woman can only hope she isn’t measured by appearance; although it speaks so loudly over her. The bedroom door was open, and before closing out the rain, I put my palm up to touch it, try to smell it. But nothing. I feel as he does, when his ear drops closest to my heart. My hand is as wet as it will ever be. And the outside is how I am. Today is a day from summer when everything seems to be falling. My cat sees this, too; giving me a sense that for the first time I am acknowledging reality.