Flashes of Panic

Today would have been my grandmother’s ninety-ninth birthday, by this morning’s math.

It’s also the third anniversary of the day we brought Iz home from the Dakin. He was a four-month kitten who had only just arrived at the shelter; I doubt he spent more than one night there before we scooped him up. They took him out of the quarantine cage (he hadn’t had his vet exam yet,) and handed him to me, and he purred, at which point we were pretty much sold.

It’s hard to believe it has only been three years (and three apartments, unfortunately;) I can barely remember when he wasn’t buzzing in my ear for breakfast.

He loved the wide windowsills in our Northampton apartment, and while we lived there he spent hours camped out behind the curtains, watching the parking lot. Now, he’s sacked out on the couch as though it’s just like any other day.