the small witnesses to my life
My cats know nothing about me.
They do not know what I do when I leave the house, what I worry about before falling asleep, or why some mornings I move slower than others. They have no concept of my plans. They would be unimpressed by my greatest accomplishment. I could reinvent myself entirely and, provided breakfast arrived at the usual hour, I suspect they would accept the new arrangement.
Still, they know my life in ways no one else does.
They know the sound of me coming home. The particular corner of the bed I surrender every night. They know which mornings I get up immediately and which ones can be negotiated into another ten minutes beneath the covers. One of them has watched me cry without becoming uncomfortable about it, which is more than I can say for some people.
There is something lovely about being known so simply.
No explanations. No catching up. No need to summarize what has happened since we last saw each other.
Just: You’re here.
And: I’m here too.
Sometimes I look at them sleeping in a patch of afternoon sun and wonder how many versions of me they have already lived with. I have changed plans, changed interests, worried myself sick over things that eventually became nothing. To them, I have only ever been the same pair of hands opening the curtains in the morning.
Maybe that is why I love having them near me.
They make my life feel less like something passing and more like something being quietly witnessed.
Years from now, I imagine I will remember entire periods of my life by where they used to sleep.
And suddenly, the ordinary afternoons don’t feel quite so ordinary.