With love from America....

come on home, come on home, come on home

If I don't see you through the week
See you through the window
See you next time that we're talking on the telephone
And if I don't see you in that Indian summer
Then I want to see you further on up the road

I said, oh won't you come back?
I have to see you, my dear
Won't you come back in the Celtic New Year?
--Van Morrison


Must be the Celtic New Year and its thinnin' o' the veil, as yesterday -- and not for the first time -- we have seen spooky little signs of Sasha, dear kitty departed!

Mid-afternoon, Shawn remarked from the bedroom:  "I think Sasha's paying us a visit."

"I know!" I exclaimed.

She had just seen a dangling charger cable jiggle as if a passer-by had brushed against it -- or batted at it a bit.  I had to agree that it must be the tiny white Persian come calling, because about an hour earlier I'd seen something interesting, too (and mind you, I am a devout believer in scientific materialism, i.e., I tend to think paranormal/supernatural stuff is imaginary and like to ridicule the TV ghost hunters).

I was in the front yard, rinsing the big white ice chest when red clay dirt that had been clogging the hose gushed out and spattered across the lid.  I stared for a few seconds and it was unmistakable:  Three or four cat pawprints, just as if one had bounded across the ice chest when I wasn't looking.  Wish I hadn't rinsed them away, as we could have dried and framed them!  You could tell she was headed toward the bedroom window.

Sasha was/is a familiar and so is well suited to this sort of thing.  We called her a ghost even during her time with us, little wisp o' white out the corner of one's eye.  Well, I mean, just look at the picture, it's actually her.  We have interred her little ash urn in a cabinet under the butsudan.

Today I see that I've accidentally dropped a flake of potato chip on the floor -- something Sasha used to count on.  I'm just going to leave it there for a while.

SGTex

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