In the mornings I meditate on the kitchen floor.
By which I mean I sit, legs crossed, mostly still, and pointedly try not to notice the desiccated remnants of meals past, shaming me from under the cupboard door. The veneer is cracked in such a way it resembles a curling lip, and I work hard to not think about it too much; in case the shape in my periphery begins to warp into something more sinister.
I just sit, breathing mindfully, which is desperately uncomfortable, batting away any wayward thoughts. Being present in the moment, or trying to. Until barely five minutes pass, and I am disturbed by the deafening stare of a small brown cat.
This is our practiced ritual. And I am glad of his punctuality.
He is hungry he claims, and I pretend to be agitated by his flagrant disregard for my wellbeing.
“Food?” Say I.
“Prrp” says he.
And so the conversation goes, every time.
While demolishing a generous portion of biscuits, I imagine he questions my habits.
“Why are you on the floor?”
I tell him I do this because glossy women on the internet say it is the way to inner peace. That it is the path to an unspoiled white plastic enlightenment, and I believe them, sometimes. And because frankly, it’s a choice between transcendental bliss or ice cream, and I can’t afford to buy any more fat-girl clothes.
I meditate on the kitchen floor, and he asks me if it’s white-plastic enlightenment I’m searching for down there, or whether I’m just looking for stray morsels. The latter, he says, is wiser, and I am beginning to agree.
Once the biscuits are gone, and the coffee is cool enough to drink, we watch the news together. He likes the intensity of interviews, and we enter into furious debate on the merits of whichever ruddy faced politician haunts the screen. That one, he tells me, looks like he has roast chicken at least four times a week, and is therefore of impeccable character.
On occasion our happy routine is disrupted; sometimes by practical concerns, and sometimes by invisible weights in my pockets.
I talk to him about silence on the hard days, and how I hate it, and how I need it, which is somehow much, much worse. In sympathy he breaks it for me by demonstrating how to add volume to a stare, and I thank him by offering a knuckle, and the promise of carefully placed pressure behind the ears.
Most evenings he curls up on my lap and relates to me his dreams, but only those that send the twitch running through him. They are all black and white films of pursuits and victories; westerns and heists, strategy and success. There is a violence to them I think, though he would never admit it.
When he’s soft enough to show me the spotted cream of his belly, I dare to ask about his childhood. His answer is always unsatisfying, and I wonder what he means when he says he can’t remember.
Recently I’ve taken to leaving the television on. He says it helps him build a world outside of our flat, and I remember he is trapped here with me, by me. My tears cast little spikes in his fur, as I mutter that I never meant to be his jailer.
I cry for his freedom, and for mine, and he purrs his low hymn to drown out my pain. We are both bound here he says, confined by co-dependency and circumstance, held in place by dulled instinct. He is reconciled to his fate in a way I can never be.
I say sorry but the word feels hollow; dry and withered like food long forgotten under the kitchen cupboard.
He says he forgives me, but only when I offer tuna.