Gateway of the Infinite
Mysteriously cool and cloudy for a summer morning. I wear my red sweats. At first, I can’t imagine eating anything. Then I put frozen falafel in the toaster oven and start making a salad. The kitties come to the bar to watch, sitting politely on the stools, peering across the counter at the cutting board and my hands busy chopping carrots and celery. It has been a long time since we performed this little ritual together. I recall rainy Sunday dinners last winter when they lined up at the counter like this to watch me cook.
It is a quiet, understated pleasure. I’m afraid that any thought or extreme appreciation of it might disrupt the scene, causing it to melt away like a mirage. I push a carrot end across the counter to them. They take turns sniffing, recoiling slightly. They hate celery even more than carrots. Salad and dressing assembled, falafel toasted, I crowd onto a barstool beside them and eat. They watch for a while. The gray-striped tabby slips away to look into the yard from the screen door.
He watches the corn. Somewhere out there, my calico is doing her rounds, sniffing grapevines, lavender stems, and rose bushes. Perhaps he is watching her. She might be among the tall green cornstalks. Young hawks scream from their nest in one of the nearby oaks. I should give up on the seasons. This sunless summer morning could be the final evidence of the futility of my pattern-seeking, my meaning-making. The storyteller could vanish into scenes out of sequence, time that loops back on itself, lunch for breakfast, and breakfast for dinner. Real comfort seems to flow from my tired surrender to chaos and meaninglessness. Aren’t these just the guardians at the gateway of the infinite?
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