There’s a woman in a black dress that feeds the stray cats every evening on Rua Miguel Lupi. Her aide is always with her.
I’ve never seen her face, and I don’t think the cats have either. Maybe her aide doesn’t even know what she looks like.
The woman has shoulder-length straight blonde hair, and her ears are usually draped in subtle jewels. They reflect the moonlight, beckoning the nocturnal hunger like shooting stars.
Her feet barely make a sound, like the cats themselves, despite them trodding in short classy heels.
Does anyone else see her? These two angels bearing nightly meals. I see them speaking, but can’t hear a word.
As they disappear, carried away by the evening breeze, the cats silently chew their dry food, as if trained by royal etiquette.
I wonder, why this woman and these cats relate. Maybe they’re all her angels, family members who have passed. Or they’re just cats who know they’ll always be fed.
Maybe it’s just nice to give with nothing expected in return. A silent engagement. No one has to say anything or touch. A deliberate exchange, a feeling of fulfillment. Their ritual has existed longer than these paved hills, I like to believe.
What a charming idea, that something can be timeless without being anything at all.
