At the hour when colors forget their names, I came to a small house. Two cats sat on the steps as if they had arrived much earlier and had already grown used to waiting. Their coats were banded in quiet storms of color, like shelves where a life might be sorted by mistake. They watched me with that courteous attention given to someone who is not expected.
The door was simple, the knob unremarkable, and yet the distance to it increased the longer I looked. A warm light slept behind the pink panels; flowers on the tiles practiced their patience; the cacti held their breath without effort. I thought of explanations I might offer to no one in particular. Each explanation dimmed as soon as it was ready.
The cats blinked together. Perhaps it was permission. Perhaps it was only the closing of two small windows against the wind. I sat on the lowest step so as not to disturb the order of things. Night unrolled along the hills like a decree I had already signed.
When I finally stood, the knob turned. The room beyond remained intact without me, which seemed both reasonable and unbearable. I let the door rest again in its frame. The cats resumed their posts, not guarding, not welcoming, merely continuing the work of staying.
