The Night She Slept on My Chest

She was never a lap cat. For six years she preferred the far end of the sofa and a view of the door. Then one night, after a hard week, she climbed onto my chest and stayed there.

I did not move for an hour. I barely breathed. I kept thinking about how much I needed her to stay, and how strange it was that she seemed to know.

People talk about animals as if their affection is random. I am not so sure. She had watched me all week. She had seen the lights stay on late, the untouched dinner, the way I sat on the floor instead of the chair. Maybe she did not understand the reason. But she understood the shape of the sadness, and she put her small warm body on top of it.

In the morning she went back to the far end of the sofa. But for one night, she made a different choice. I have been grateful for it ever since.