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Will I Be the Old Woman With 1,000 Cats?
What happens when you have no one in your twilight years?
Will you kick down the door, or knock?
The first thing you notice is that the room smells of cotton towels, fresh from the dryer. If scent could be a breadcrumb, know that I have dropped them with fucking abandon. Minnie Riperton and Irma Thomas take turns serenading the scene, playing faintly in the background, but you’re distracted by plumes of smoke coming from outside: The neighbor has arsonist tendencies, masked by his evening barbecues and the fire alarms that blare in their wake. The windows are open and it’s a California spring, fragrant with salt and jasmine—clean, with a hint of black smoke. Crumbs two and three. I hope you’ve kept track. I hope you’re still smelling.
The expensive home I rent is an 800-square-foot coffin facing a body of water where people splash and float. The two windows serve as miniature grids, allowing for the transaction that is breath. Sometimes I stand there with my cat, peering outside. We see them splashing, those signs of life, but no one sees us. Nothing ever leaves my house. What enters are small boxes of food and the undertakers, who have a job that is a kind of deliverance. People talk about what they wear when their last breath shudders out. Forget that parade. Let’s fixate on the…
