Memory of a Brief Acquaintance, North Fork
A black cat perches on the white porch railing, still as a carved figure, commanding the whole of his small kingdom. The boxwood rises beside him like a green attendant, and he regards the street with those pale, ancient eyes — not suspicious, never cold, but deeply, unhurriedly present.
He has appointed himself to this post. No one asked him. No one needed to.
The afternoon light catches something almost auburn beneath his black coat, a secret warmth the sun draws out of him that wouldn’t exist in shadow, the way certain people only show you what they’re made of when the light is just right. His paw rests over the railing’s edge as though he might, at any moment, extend a greeting… or simply continue watching. Both are equally possible. Both are equally deliberate.
The white clapboard house holds him like a frame holds a painting it knows is good.
He has seen everyone who matters pass this way. He remembers. He will see them again. And if he decides you are worthy — if something in your walk, your scent, the particular quietness you carry — he will descend from his height and come to you, unhurried, certain, a small and sovereign act of grace.
But until then, he watches.
He always watches.