Saturday, November 7, 2015
come on home, come on home, come on home
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?
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.
at 7:19 PM