She has a cat, my mother.
It sits with her, perfectly still and with the eyes of a skeptic.
She does not touch it and it does not touch her.
The nature of their relationship baffles me, for I cannot see how either can be comforted by the other's presence, and yet, they are perfectly content.
I try to pet it sometimes - to settle the poor beast - but it melts away into the shadows by the fireplace, eyeing me indignantly.
It's getting slower though, that cat.
She has a clock, my mother.
An old thing; damaged by the time it had promised to keep.
It does not chime or tick, but it's hands move wearily with the hours.
It's been wrong lately, that clock.
She had a son, my mother. A sickly thing, scarcely able to move. He wailed and cried, and yet she kept him going, like the embers in her fireplace.
Until he stopped.
He did not slow like the cat or the clock, or even burn out like the embers.
He simply stopped.
She's growing slow, my mother.
