Tears in rain

Monday morning at half past five,

It felt so good to be alive.

It rhymes, but I can’t seem to remember when I actually last felt that way. I’ve had to think hard to recall that sense of careless, joyful euphoria such as a young child might feel on Christmas morning, perhaps.

What did it for me was a bright, sunny day in a remote and beautiful place, in the company of someone I loved, when time did not matter, at least temporarily. Birdsong filled the air and I was light-hearted.

In old age, I’m not sure it is possible to feel light-hearted. Mental scar-tissue weighs us down, no matter how resilient we may be. It is not to say we can’t be happy.

Just lacking in joie-de-vivre.

Being realistic – my opinion.

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If I can’t quite be light-hearted, I can certainly find a great deal to celebrate. Lily just came asking for a cuddle, something she does often these days and I am happy to oblige this sweet, elderly cat, my last link to the many cats of earlier years. The younger Lily was aloof, a busy cat that stepped to her own tune, but one I have always had a great fondness for.

Well yes, I feel the same for all of them. In different ways.

It is surprising how love can actually feel different, without being more or less. Maybe you need to have a multitude of animals to realise this, but human emotion is a fickle thing.

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Early morning after a storm is always a joy. Monday was still undecided. It could go either way and I watched with interest the struggle of the elements.

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It was a late start at 0530, scattering food on the walkway for my small friends. One in particular seems to keep vigil as it darts out as soon as it sees me, quite unafraid. Maybe skunks feel secure in the knowledge that they have such an excellent defence. There is one, or I daresay more than one, that will come to the door and accept an offering from a cautiously extended hand.

Lately, I’ve been making three other stops, dropping carrots and peanuts, rinsing and topping up the water bowls although Sunday night’s storm had taken care of that.

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Fresh faces greeted me along the hedgerow. Cheerful daisies will brighten any day. I love their simplicity. They make me think of youthful innocence.

Ah, remember that?

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There is also something about imperfection that appeals to me.

Things that are not symmetrical, photos that are not quite right – I’ve got a lot of those! Flowers that are missing a petal – or two.

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One of my favourite photos of “M”, so poorly composed, yet somehow it works, capturing his eyes and his personality. It was such a sad day. We lost him to cancer just hours later.

Is it strange to cherish a photo of such a poignant and unhappy memory? Of course I remember the sadness, but it is the memory of the beloved cat that I hold onto and that last walk we gave him was precious.

We were fortunate to find a vet who would come to the house, so “M”s passing was quite stress-free for him, if not for us. He had declined adoption, remaining with us as The Boss of the foster suites.

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Monday morning rolled on, a roller coaster, like the emotions evoked by old photographs of departed friends.

Which somehow brought to mind:

Blade Runner, not really my kind of film but I liked this very poignant scene:

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