Philosophical cow dung on the life of little Ms. Imperfectly Fine.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006


I climbed the ladder propped up against the wall with careful ease. Each step gets me closer and closer to the stars, literally. I often spend hours on the roof—arms wrapping my gathered knees to keep myself warm—staring at the sky. I remembered the times whenever I was alone and Jerry would come climbing the ladder to keep me company.

The first time that he did it, I was so shocked. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It never occurred to me that he was capable of showing that much affection to actually brave the heights to be with me. Then again, perhaps that was just his nature.

From that night on, he was always there, listening to me talk about things that mattered so much to me then but are pointless to him. He didn’t understand me in the way that any other companion would at least try to, but he never turned me down. He was always there. And I love the fact that he wasn’t pretentious when we were together, he wasn’t questioning or demanding, and he would let me be all that I am.

I didn’t need him to take care of me, I never asked him to linger around, and I knew that I had no power over him but he stayed anyway. When I cried, he didn’t have to say anything at all to make me feel better; when he made me angry and I returned the feeling, we forgave each other and we forgot it instantly. We never kept a score; there wasn’t any point in that. We loved each other and it was such a joy to float in that kind of love.

When Jerry left, he died. And a part of me that clung to him died as well. I could not remember if I had actually cried. The feelings just went away; I let the hurt, the bitterness, the anger slipped in between my fingers like sands of time trickling in an hourglass. I guess I have let him go for good. Now all that is left are scattered snapshots of how lovely the stars slow danced in the midnight sky, and also the twinkle in Jerry’s cat's eyes.