I called to make an appointment. Speaking with the agent, I heard her typing fast. Her keyboard’s clickety-clack sounded like a train going by, reminding me of all those moments of sitting in a car behind the red and white boom barrier, bells ringing, red lights flashing, waiting for a train to pass.
Today’s Wandering Thought
He liked creating games out of the things he did. Arriving at the coffee shop, he noted the parked cars. The game was, ‘Whose Car is This?’ He liked matching cars with the individuals inside.
Another regular game was Sock Toss when he put clothes away after the laundry was done. He had a .600 average.
The oddest game was probably sneak up on the cats. Tucker wasn’t included much any longer. He was old and slept deeply. Papi was his usual target, but the little ginger usually moved ears and lifted his head to smile at him before he was within three feet. Papi knew the game, and he always won.
Tuesday’s Wandering Thought
“Listen,” he said. “I need to eat now. See, I need to take of myself so I can take care of you. Who will take care of you if I’m not here?”
The cat meowed back.
He wasn’t sure if his message was received.
Sunday’s Wandering Thought
My cat, Tucker, has developed a method of meowing without opening his mouth. Lately, the sound coming out sometimes sounds like he’s saying my name, “Michael. Michael.” Today, after I put food into his bowl, it sounded like he said, “Thank you.”
I’m awaiting further developments.
Thursday’s Wandering Thought
Midnight was riding up when he slipped on his slippers and fleece. Out the front door he went into a cold, inky night, a cat at his heels.
He closed the front door. The cat galloped ahead. Hard stars ruled the blackness. Stopping a dozen feet from the house, he stared up until Saturn’s yellow spot was located, and then watched until he found the green comet, C/2022 E3. He watched it for a few minutes, imagining the comet’s journey, pleased that he’d seen it.
Until next time, he told it with a small wave and then returned to his house, holding the door open until the cat ran back in, too.
Wednesday’s Wandering Thought
It was Wednesday. As though scheduled by God, school children began filing into the coffee house at 2:05. Within five minutes, the number of people went from six quiet adults to six quiet adults and fifty noisy children aged ten through fifteen, at a guess. The volume rose. Their voices climbed louder. A fighter jet taking off would have been drowned out.
The cliques formed and routines were honored. Then one teenaged female raced back through the coffee house and out the front door. As she left, she screamed and then did a little dance. A girl outside ran up to her. The two surged into a long hug and began jumping up and down without releasing each other, joy overwhelming their expressions. Other girls in the coffee shop turned, saw the scene and ran out to join them. “Eva, Eva,” one running girl shouted as she raced out, answering one question.
Of course, other questions surfed his mind, like who was Eva and where had she been? She seemed very popular. It was like she was just getting back from prison, a hospital stay, or a very long trip.
Tuesday’s Wandering Thought
Tuesday found another tech irritation gaining momentum. Apps and search boxes always tried finishing his typing for him. They were often wrong and usually a distraction. Almost as bad was when he shoved his mouse aside to clear a view of what he was typing, only to have the cursor land on something else, amplifying whatever was in that box, whether he was interested or not. The pages were just messy with annoying ‘helpful’ distractions.
Of the Floof Kind
He pads through the house though there’s little light,
Making little sound.
Confirming everything is alright,
Unwilling to let his people down.
Then he returns to the beds,
Checking everyone’s heads,
Reassuring himself that they’re fine.
And has a little to eat,
And then, relaxing, goes to sleep,
Doing the work of a floof kind.
Thursday’s Wandering Thought
He admired his blue pullover. It was a cheap thing, a rag sweater bought for about $15 over twenty years ago. He still liked it although no elastic properties remained in it. Other than that failure, the sweater had no holes, no picks from an animal’s claws — which was truly amazing — and had not frayed anywhere. He’d bought it a store which no longer existed.
The store name, Mervyn’s, came to him after a moment. He remembered their television commercials. It seemed like they’d gone out of business so suddenly and was gone, like a brief rain shower on a hot summer day.
Michael Seidel, writer 