LINGER

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For days, every dusk, every dawn; down the street, echoes and then gone.
His voice is calling, through the rain, in the corner, blown by the wind, under the sun, piercing the moon.

But nothing; no one.

I left food among the grass, behind the walls of the curbs, near the drain pipes. For days, every dusk, every dawn, further down the street in the empty lot, gone with the wind, under the sun, lit by the moon.

Nothing, no one.

For days, every dusk, every dawn; down the street, echoes and then gone. Temptations in my head were luring, stay a little bit longer, book a room in a that small town, just outside Jakarta. Just for one night, go around, take a break, get lost, but bring bigger bag, with more pouches.

But nothing, none.

There are many in my own abode, sick and waiting. Many had fallen into the cracks the community will never reach into, but me and my arm, crushed by the weight of my compassion, denied rest by the ignorance of the living.

I had to go. I came all the way to say hello and pay my respects and send my love, send my regards, my gratitude, rekindled the connection that was long abandoned by the strain of my daily life.

Then I rode back home. Just in time when darkness fall and those who zombied the day hiding in the trashes or under the cars crawls out, looking for life, looking for chance, betting their hope.

I went straight to the colony then, to an old cotton ball whose four legs had touched the scorching road and white fur fade as it washed by countless rain. Fergus had spent his whole life there; sniffing from one pile of garbage to the other, picking remains of food left behind by man, like his life left behind by the world.

Although we have known each other just last year, he knows me better. He knows my steps, he knows my voice, he knows the rustle of my bag and the crunching of my pouches, and he will run to me. And he will sit near by and let me run my fingers through the silvery glisten of his white, long fur, once luxurious only in his younger days.

There are many in other houses, and more in the park, each peeking from behind the garbage, jump out from the drain, walking from under the bench, avoiding the light, or run pass it not to be seen.

But nothing, none.

None will be passed even though it’s difficult to count their number as the giant trees extend their fingers upon us.

For days, every dusk, every dawn; down the street; but today, Tabby was in the front yard, waiting. She had spent her life on the street of the market, with mange that ate her alive and kicks that brought her to my arms. By all means I would keep her; she stays outside by her own will.

But nothing, none.

Never will she come in and refused a full meal.

For days, every dusk, every dawn; down the street, echoes and then gone.
His voice is calling, through the rain, in the corner, blown by the wind, under the sun, piercing the moon.

Today, it’s even closer, just below me, just nearby.

I looked back and I found him, slipping under the fence and close to Tabby, rubbing, rubbing; fighting for life, looking for a chance, betting on hope.

And I came back down, and pick him up while he wasn’t looking.

When I turn him around, our eyes met, and I see him.

He was pale with eyes as brown as dried leaves, like Dusty. He has long, pointy tail like Dusty. His fur faded and washed out like Dusty. He was thin like Dusty, he has bald patches everywhere like Dusty.

He lingers like Dusty.

Lingers like the memory of that dark night when I was also home from another town. Like the memory of his struggle to eat, because he hadn’t done so for so long. Like the memory of our days, of our rise and fall, of many challenges and victories, of six years ago.

Lingers like the memory of that day, two years ago, when I sent him off to cross the rainbow bridge; still with eyes brown as dried leaves, still with faded fur that never become yellow, but with tummy bulging to the side and coat soft like velvet brand new.

He bit me when I cut the rubber band that start to tighten around his neck; he bit the rubber band and spat it away when I showed him what had been choking him.

He followed me to the backyard and walked ahead, as if he knew the place too well, but then he comes back with a little run, like Dusty.

For days, every dusk, every dawn; down the street, echoes and then gone.
His voice is calling, through the rain, in the corner, blown by the wind, under the sun, piercing the moon.

But nothing; none.

None ever change, Dusty, if you are the one sending your mini to me. None ever change even if it is you coming back to start all over again.

Nothing. None is forgotten, none is forsaken.

Welcome home

~ Josie

paypal.me/whiskerssyndicate

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Josie And The Whiskers' Syndicate

The first and only cat refuge in Bandung (West Java - Indonesia) a capital breeder of a nation without animal welfare law. We care for Bandung's unwanted animals, operate a TNR as much as our budget allows, and continue to educate people about compassion to animals

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