Cats at Sunset and Lane

The sun was shining through the windows, a sweep of lemon across the floor, as she gathered up the cat, in her arms, a young girl in her teens, smiling back, beguilingly, once more.

They pulled away, driving slowly that day, leaving silent in the subtle disarray, and never to come back again. They never came back, and I would become the memory of yellow sun Summers and soft chanting rains, the cats at Sunset and Lane.

Of dew kissed daises and blue sky mornings, rainbows of a Sunday School Sunday, melancholy as the sizzle of my sigh, the cats at Sunset and Lane.

Another family came in the fresh rush of Fall, painting the front porch new, replacing the window glass colors tinted bright of hue. The years came and were swiftly gone, walls more cracks and flaws as I grew old.

Now I am smaller than they were bound to remember, as I ever drift through their mind. Is she gone, her life came and past, did the echo of past Summers outlive her. Standing defiantly against the wind, mellow, am I left the last. The cats at Sunset and Lane.

And there is so slightly, echoes of a young girl, laughing, chasing burnt orange leaves tumbling on the ground, her arms waving free in the wind. Did she find her destiny, when tears stole away. Sad and forgotten passed by. And did she ever find her way to come home again, to the cats at Sunset and Lane.

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