Star lays on the couch, at my feet. Earlier he sat at the door, waiting to be let out, Ron crawled onto my lap before deciding that the chair looked better. Star never, or rarely meows at the door, just sits. And when he wants to be let in, he will sit, his head at glass level, looking for all intensive purposes as if it is just floating there, knowing, the way a cat knows, that someone will let him in.
Now Ron is back, in my lap, he purrs, curls his head down into my chest, pulls it up and stretches out his front paws. I am the one who moves to suit him, why? And in the fireplace a fire burns, and upstairs Dylan watches a movie, and downstairs Ray works on his computer, plays the guitar. And outside, oh, outside, the snow falls, silently, and that is the beauty of snow, its quietness, the stillness it creates.
The house was taken off the market today. It doesn't make any sense, on one day, off the next. But there was something..unexplainable, a sense of: wait..for what? Possibly for Sunday's Tribune, or for the boys to be out of the house, or for decrepitude to set in..or dementia..but perhaps that has already happened.