Four cats
I inhabit a house with four cats. One black, one white, one black and white, and one gray. One skinny, one soft, one barrel-like, one round. One hungry, one playful, one snuggly, one adventurous. One loud, one silent, one murmurous, one bossy. One comes, one waits, one slides, one follows.
Since four days ago they have been all gone. Now it's all empty space, and four traces of who I was among them complete the painting. But I am still careful moving around, and keep the doors closed so they don't cross the street. I don't want them coming into the garage before I leave, hiding behind the furniture and playing with my sense of urgency. I head to refill the bowl I see is scarce in pellets. I think of the one that only wants chicken, or broccoli, or gnocchi, or potato chips. I hear them scratching my door. I see them come and go, but I realize it's my limbs, it's the forceful gravity on my body, it's my beating heart, or the sorrow I feel behind both eyes, what lacking their soft bodies actually sees.
What a cat thinks when you leave? I wish I could explain. The big tree with a cat at the top, a big blobby one that doesn't ever leaves its structure, is letting its tree to move him away. The blobby cat, the heater, the one that needs us to be nearby, will possibly never come back. It will be fine, that one, and we should as well enjoy our lives and stay together, and never cross the street. The big blobby one will miss us dearly, we can see it in his eyes.