I come home tonight. It's dark outside. It's dark inside. There are overhead lights in the stairwell, of course, and sometimes we use them and sometimes we don't. Nobody has turned them on tonight.
But there's a sliver of light as one of my downstairs neighbors has her door ajar. I pass by the door and go up the stairs. At the top there's a swirl of shadow within the shadow. The neighbor's cat, small with a white belly.
The cat trots back down the stairs. Crossing between the dark red space—red because of the exit signs—and the more brightly lit spot.
It was a nice sight to come home to, to pass through.
But there's a sliver of light as one of my downstairs neighbors has her door ajar. I pass by the door and go up the stairs. At the top there's a swirl of shadow within the shadow. The neighbor's cat, small with a white belly.
The cat trots back down the stairs. Crossing between the dark red space—red because of the exit signs—and the more brightly lit spot.
It was a nice sight to come home to, to pass through.
2 comments:
That's a very poetic description of a mysterious and peaceful scene.
I don't know why but I was reminded of a Groucho quote on a card you once
sent me: Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog
it's too dark to read.
♥️
Cats are a funny mixture of standoffish and playful. Maybe they have a poetic effect on me for that reason. This one did at least.
That Groucho line is somewhat in the same vein as "One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How the elephant got in my pajamas I'll never know." Both make me laugh.
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