Today was the first time in two weeks that the stray cat I’ve been feeding didn’t show up for dinner. Today I cried at a childhood photo of my father swimming in a pool, the first one I’ve ever seen where he looks exactly like me because he’s smiling, halfway to a laugh. Our little grins stretched with the abundance of gaps between our teeth, our cheeks fat and full, our dark hair slicked back by the heavy chlorine. Today I sat on the couch and prayed for control, prayed for my boyfriend to look at me like I’m human, prayed to go back in time and hug the smaller version of myself, of my father, of the kitten that was born in the cold and left there by someone who decided they would not love her. I wish I could kiss the top of her head, show her that something good can be found even in those that you thought would hurt you. Instead she comes to my door and waits for me, rubs against my legs, but won’t come inside. Please. I want to say to her. You are so angry that it prevents love. I have dreams where you curl against my chest and we live a good, quiet life. Please. But we both know that she won’t. So I give her food and tell her to come back tomorrow.

I hope she comes back tomorrow.