I walk by those two babies, the two babies sleeping on the ottoman. They look up at me with this blank stare.
You don’t feel like you belong, do you?
Our older cat isn’t real fond of them. He misses his kitty sister, who passed away in March. He spent eight long years with her, and suddenly, she is gone. Who are these kittens romping and playing? Uninvited, at that. But God love him, he’s accidentally trying.
He hisses and bites at them when they get too close. But then he’ll turn and greet nose to nose. You just never know.
I’ll see them sitting in the corner … wondering if it’s safe to be seen, to be known, to be here, to belong.
I bent over and loved on those abandoned babies. I pat their sweet heads, gave them sugars, and asked, “Are you wondering if this is your home?” I get in their sweet faces. “Did you know that this is your forever home? You belong here. We just found you, or so it would seem, but we want you. Get comfortable. You don’t have to be invisible. We love you.”
I took hold of them and hugged them.
You know, sometimes I feel invisible just like that. I feel different. I don’t belong. In the world, and even sometimes at home. If my beloved is not happy with me. If I don’t speak the language, their lingo. If I don’t blend with the world. If I don’t wear this, if I don’t wear that. If I don’t drink this or smoke that or do that or drive that.