Today I lie in bed in a fever, sunshine filtering in through a small window. The shadow of a cat blocks most of the light, a dark cat-shaped shadow, my cat, my black husband's cat, blackness where yesterday there was just blankness.
Yesterday , for the whole day, we were held in a white fog that surrounded the house. We were like a tall ship at sea, with no knowing where we were, no landmarks, until the whooosh of a car and yellow headlights broke the spell for a moment. The drivers were not doubt caught in the same reverie, driving in a sea of mist that hid all familiar forms, and they saw our lighted windows as ships might see a lighthouse, guiding them past the danger of a foggy twilight.
My fever holds time as a physical thing that floats on and on, around my bed, as I grow too hot, incapable of grasping it, and I cling to the bed in its heat and grittiness. The sun sinks. The cat has taken its black form to my elbow as I write, and looks into my eyes.
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