In One Hundred Years of Solitude, Remedios the Beautiful ascends into heaven one day, as she is hanging out her laundry. Realism is seldom so magical as in that moment, and the Remedios in my life seldom ascends higher than the top of a bookcase where she seeks refuge from the much larger, but persistently earthbound Shiva. She also has little to do with laundry, beyond squirming between the bedsheets late at night, looking for a warm safe place to sleep. Mornings are among her favorite times, as I spend too much time at the computer, and she can usually catch a little extra naptime in my lap. But sometimes, I actually get some writing done there, and at those times, I sit up straighter and become a less comfortable bed. On those occasions (happily rare) she takes a few minutes to sit upright, with irritated patience, waiting for my writing to come to a halt, so she can resume her interrupted sleep. This morning, I recorded her attitude for posterity.
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