it’s in everything you touch. everything that you do not touch, too.
cat hair wasn’t something that amused you. you always inspected pots and pans very thoroughly before you poured your precious olive oil in. you rinsed coffee cups and glasses methodically, sighs escaping from your mouth and spiraling down the drain. inevitably you would find a thin, short black hair peeking solemnly out of your rice. you would pull it away with your fork, nose twitching. i could not have known that cat fur would find its way to your plate, nor that it would bother you with such zeal.
i found evidence of a cat in my books, clothes, pillows and bed, but i always got along with it. it was part of the furniture. my couch and i basked in the warmth of cat hair and raggedy blankets. i, too, have left my hair in clothes, pillows and beds—living on in others’ memories and suspicions until the very last strand. it was not a premeditated evolutionary trick. i never thought much of it until it was brought to my attention.
before you i kept a chaos of a home. in lieu of being a mess, i lived in one. now i am the former, but i keep a clean house.