Mimicry

The walk from work to my front door is no longer than four minutes. Tonight, I'm outrunning an incoming storm. Winds have picked up and where there should be a sunset there's a cover of darkened clouds. Across the street, a vagrant fumbles through his cartful of belongings. He's searching for something.

He's searching for something he won't find. Not in this city, and certainly not tonight.

I quicken my steps, hasten toward home to avoid the rain and the conversation with a stranger. There's a distant growl of thunder. There's a struggle to locate my keys, a slip as I fail to turn the key in the lock as far as is needed and instead attempt to push through an unforgiving door.

Deep breath. Patience employed on the second attempt.

The door opens to a wave of humidity, the sight of the fan I forgot to turn on acting as a reminder of my hectic morning. At my ankles is a screaming child--my cat, Hank--and he's hungry.

The next motions are well-practiced, a routine I've come to follow to a T: shoes on the rack, purse on the counter, keys in the dish. I take out my water bottle. I hang my mask. I find Hank's open can of food (freeze-dried liver flavour, tonight) and spoon some into his bowl.

He eats distractedly, wants to watch me changing out of my work clothes and rinsing my face in the bathroom. It's the meal that takes him the longest to down even if it's the one he's happiest to have. I plop down on the couch with my phone and a freshly poured glass of pinot grigio. My feet are sore. My stomach is growling. Neglected notifications beg for my attention.

My younger sister posted something inappropriate on the internet. My mom told all of Facebook how bad her day has been. My ex-boyfriend left me a string of messages. Every app I scroll through is another reminder that my day hasn't ended. Every app is a reminder of conversations I've been avoiding and obligations I've pushed to the back-burner for two days too long.

Hank considers returning to his plush cat bed. Eyes the chair in the corner of the room. But the decision is easy; it's the same one he makes after every one of my shifts. The target is the very centre of the living room carpet, where he holds eye contact while rolling onto his back. There's a meow, a small demand for attention.

Everything he knows is the peace found within these four walls. He doesn't yet care about the storm, or the stranger on the street, or the trials of my Tuesday night. He's unconcerned about everything except this: a moment of connection.

Hank and I don't speak the same language, but we understand one another with perfect clarity. In his big green eyes is a request meant to benefit both of us, a plea that I take residence and reprieve at his side. My phone falls from my hand, lands on the couch cushion before slipping off toward the carpet. And I don't mind. In this living room, tonight, there are more pressing issues.

It's my own body that slips off of the couch next, crawls on all fours toward the creature I've come to love and settles on the carpet alongside him. Most nights, he appreciates some space. Six inches between our vastly different bodies with just my arm outstretched to run fingertips through soft fur.

I'm sure I'd close my eyes and drift toward deeper relaxation if I didn't enjoy looking at him so much. As it stands, I take notes from my cat. Allow my body to curve against the carpet in whichever shape it needs, allow my breathing to steady. It's easy, in this space, to clear my head in the way I imagine his own mind manoeuvres the minute challenges faced throughout his day. It's easy to think about nothing aside from the serenity in this room, in this companionship.

Neither of us has always had this. While Hank rarely knew security before coming to me, I rarely had reason to pause and to disconnect from the cacophony of the rest of the world.

Hank rolls onto his back, a small and happy noise offered in the process. I do the same, with some degree of automation.

This meditation is feline-led.