The sun is rising and he says, “I’ll go and get you some bread,” as our cat is resting on her chair, facing the sun. Her eyes squint shut as they absorb the rays. Her soft pink nose starts to brighten—warming up after a night on the pillow at the bottom of the bed in the air conditioning.
I watch her sleep in the sun, then wake to roll around, covering herself in as much sunshine as she can get. It’s winter, so the sun sits softer and lower in the sky—it only stays long enough for her to absorb the warmth onto her fur. Her ears flicker back and forth with the bird chirps. She knows what they’re saying. She sits in sphinx pose, then catches my phone’s reflection on the wall.
I wish I didn’t have my phone—but then again, I wouldn’t have caught this moment of her sunbathing. This is a reminder of the small things that offer softness, an exhale, the present.
She leaves her slumber to chase—to hunt the light reflected from my phone.
The key unlocks the door, and the moment ends to begin a new day, together.
