I lifted the cat and hugged her.
Even though she’s shit on our bedroom floor and I stepped in it twice.
Once, as I clomped my way to the john in the dark. Bladder so full of vodka, Sprite, and water that I thought I’d never go back to bed.
The other, a weird moment when I was here, but there–a man dead, but alive–dreaming but awake. It woke me, but instead of cleaning it up I sat on the floor listening to my wife snore.
And I loved her more than I did the day I said I do.
There are more moments like this than I like to admit.
An intense belief that ghosts do not only exist but push day-after-day to remind us of how quickly this life ends.
But I don’t believe them.
There are cats to hug.
There’s shit to clean up.
And those hands sweeping round silently never ever end.