After almost seven weeks in my our new domicile, my pussycat Loaner has made a solid homestead of my closet. She comes out when it is time for a treat and winds her way around my ankles as if to make up for our separation during her time away from me. We have a balcony but it may as well not exist, as our western exposure and a tall building allows only a brief slant of sunshine to touch us. I worry about its lack for Loaner. I know she misses her lemon tree and the grass — or perhaps she doesn’t; perhaps I am projecting my concerns for her new state of living.
As for myself, I am beginning to connect names with so many appropriate faces. At first it was bewildering — the name would fly out of my head as soon as it was offered — despite my efforts, and the next time had to confess to it in embarrassment. I have made the acquaintance of two women who have achieved the age of 100, and am awed by their ability to walk, much less feed themselves, leading to the introspection of how many years I will be living here. As my final home, I could do worse. I am not truly alone, although a new kind of bravery will be demanded of me. I must find a sense of humor to fit this particular scenario. Like Loaner, I must find my own closet, a state of being to fit the circumstance