Painting, and Graphic, by David Potts.

Felicity: a Feline, Stupid Feelings and Why Jesus Died

Is there something wrong with me?”

A lazy weekend morning: light finds its way through the sitting room window.

“No, honey… There is actually quite a long list.” I needle her instinctively, and not a thing feels out of place.

Silence (where there would be a laugh any other time, a smile at least). I see her reach for a framed memento out of the corner of my eye.

I escape the story stretched open on my lap (to see her smile, at least… It’s not there).

She turns quickly to look out the window, and I know she’s crying by the way she blinks (and blinks) and bites her bottom lip.

Oh no. 
Oh, Jesus Christ… Take the wheel, take the blame… 
Do something…

He’s not there.
God, he’s not there. But I‘m there (here, I mean).

I’ve been here though (and there too, I mean) the whole time.
She fell in love with me — this winsome mess — and all that which is terribly, tragically not quite right. I’m comforted.

The fat cat, Felicity, finds a space in between us.

And I begin my ascent. “I love all those wrong things though,” I say, putting my book aside at last.

There is a story developing here.

“It’s about finding the person with the wrong stuff that’s right for you, you know?” So unfortunate (so stupid), I am well aware — she hunches further toward the window, her head shaking slightly — and I panic.

“If it’s any consolation, there is much more wrong with me than you.”

She turns to face me now. “Seriously?”
Her sadness, it seems a fond memory. She looks… sounds…

“Seriously?!” I have not answered.

The cat stirs and arches its back.
Rather, I have no right answer. But plenty more of much the same. A very simple question though, isn’t it? And I am always never serious (so stupid, she is well aware).

“I’ll have you know,” I softly say, just so she can hear (and Felicity, of course, who kneads carelessly now at the inseam of my corduroys), “that I just enlisted Jesus as my driver…”

“… and he hasn’t yet arrived.”

There’s her laugh (a smile, at least). So simple in the end.

The clock strikes something (so stupid). Felicity sleeps, and purrs.
A lazy weekend morning: light finds its way through the sitting room window.

If there is a reason to write, I’ll find it.
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