The Cat and the Windowsill

Tabby was a cat who lived on a windowsill. That is, the house was her house, but her favorite place was the windowsill. In the daytime she slept in the sun, and in the evening she opened her eyes and watched the street.

In the evening the street was like a fairy tale.

First the baker closed his shop, pulled down the shutter and walked home. Tabby counted his tired steps: forty-two.

Then the lamp on the corner came on. At the same moment every evening. Under the lamp a moth danced; Tabby twitched her tail but did not jump. It was too far.

Then the girl in the house opposite brushed her teeth; you could see her through the window, her mouth full of foam, making faces at the mirror. Tabby loved that.

Then a car passed. Always the same car, always at the same time. "Going home," Tabby would think.

Then Blackie the street cat passed. He looked up at the windowsill, winked at Tabby and went on. Tabby winked back. That was their greeting.

Then the light in the house opposite went out. Then the one upstairs. Then the baker's. In the street only the lamp was left; and the moon.

Tabby yawned. She tucked her paws under her. She wrapped her tail around her nose. She looked at the street one last time: everyone at home, everyone fine. And she slept.

Do you have a window? Is there someone looking out of it? Maybe a cat. Maybe the moon. Someone is watching and seeing that everyone is fine. You are fine too. Sleep.