A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that I was feeling sad. One reason is that a few people who have mattered to me died around that time of year--including a family member who was a couple of years younger than I am now and a female friend who committed suicide. But another cause of my tristesse is the days growing shorter.
Interestingly, I don't notice the lack of light as much when I'm riding my bike. In fact, the graying November sky becomes rather comforting, like a shawl spread across bare, wizening limbs and rocks:
And the November dusk has its own sort of lumination, like a sort of wisdom revealed:
A little bit of that light crossed my path--or so it seemed:
When I stopped, he rubbed against my ankles. When I dismounted and squatted next to my bike, he rubbed his face against my hand.
He brought me joy tinged with a note of sadness: A cat so friendly could only have been abandoned by someone.
In that sense--as well as in his physical appearance--he's like Max. My friend Mildred, who rescued him, told a similar story: He, who had never before met her, approached her as she walked down the street.
I didn't have a bag or basket, but I was tempted to find a way to bring my new-found friend home. I gave myself all of the reasons why I couldn't. A woman sitting on a nearby bench told me not to worry: He's been living on that stretch of the Rockaway boardwalk for "about three years" and she and other people feed him.
I guess he manages to sleep and survive with that sky as his blanket and the sand as his mattress.