Niño in a Christmas past

Niño & Niña

And weltschmerz, ennui and malaise.  

Before I retired (not getting journalistic writing or photographic jobs) and when I had the company of my Rosemary, there were some days when we had nothing to do. We loved those days and never felt guilty.

That is now different. Rosemary is gone, I am usually on the bed with my two cuddly cats and I do nothing. I find it hard to read. I would rather stare at the ceiling and think.

My Portland friend Curtis Daily paid me a week-long visit. That was my excuse to write no blogs. He is gone and here I am cranking this blog for which I thought about all night.

The idea came to me that human love brings with it the complications of family relationships and the intimacy of a bed. When my male cat Niño (and his sister Niña, too) stare at me I have come to understand that this is pure love without the above mentioned complications (distractions?). In Plato’s world of ideas, I would now assert, that the love of a cat is perfect love. It is uncomplicated love. It is there.

As I stare at the ceiling, knowing I have to do nothing except feed my cats and myself, deal with the bathroom duties and clean the house and shop at my local Safeway, I know, that while this would not have been my thought when Rosemary was around, that I am waiting.

I am not waiting for something to happen. I am simply waiting for nature to take its course. I am waiting to die.

When Rosemary, a few minutes before she died asked us, “Am I dying?” she had a better idea, without the distractions of household menialities, of what she was doing.

I have reached that moment.

And so I wait but do have the comfort of the perfect love of two cats.