I have moved. Not far, just across the hall to the sunny apartment. It faces south east, and the light comes in like one of Vermeer's paintings. The old, scarred wood floors are scattered with piles of things...clothes, cat beds, and pillows. A random chair faces the wall. The dogs are asleep on the bed. One at the foot, Max, and one on the pillow next to my head. Her name is Katie, and she is a black pug foster, up for adoption.
The unicorn meat eating cats slowly wind from room to room, to find and settle into the sunny spots. They love the new dog bed: memory foam with a bumper all around. The dogs will sit on it, but the cats sleep on it. My possessions are scattered everywhere.
I became badly depressed this year. The death of Barry "Wayne" Reed, the kindly Stepfather, hit me hard. I took him into my home for hospice care, after his house burned down, and then he was diagnosed with cancer. That was January. During his care, I contracted pneumonia with MRSA. That was March, and physically, I am recovering slowly.
The dogs walk me in the sunshine every day, and the cats curl up to me at night. I eat well and often. Some days I wake exhausted, sometimes not.
The man who loves me, still loves me.
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