Domesticity

Domesticity is a quiet space of deep resonance. It is the subject of still life paintings. Of Jane Austen novels. Still waters run deep. And domesticity is the stillest pool in the stream, where the largest fish lurk deepest below the light.




On the balance beam of the kitchen counter, Remedios the Beautiful threads her way past the kitchen window through innocent debris, past the discarded cutting board still stained from last night's dinner, beside the fragile crystal wine glass, away from the empty bottle, over the open cupboard door below, one paw in front of the other, between the trap of the sink and the pitfall of the floor, secure for a moment from attack, by virtue of the difficulty of her location.





But the depths below intrigue, and the curiosity of Paxil draws her attention downward. Is it the mystery water dish that draws them? Or the faint scent of tuna wafting from discarded deli container? One man's leftovers are two cats' snack. But if you want tuna, you must surrender your perch. So, it has ever been.









Meanwhile, outside the open window, shielded by the crystal miracle of glass, the winter's cardinal comes on the cusp of spring to pay respects at the crocuses blooming from an old cat's grave. The seasons hang on the cusp, delicately poised and balanced on the edge of a change that always occurs and is ever new. The world is about to shift again.