13

Women of child-bearing age have it easy: if all else fails they can always give birth to another human being, who will love them, at least for a time.

Watch a baby at the breast blankly studying its mother, eyes dewy with love. Whoever else ever looked at her like that?

I have a cat: I had a cat: a raggedy white Tom. When I went to prison a neighbour took it in. When I came out my raggedy Tom was a plump white neuter, with calm, kind eyes. The vet had recommended it, the neighbour said, uneasily. But I think she found the cat’s maleness too naked and too smelly. Well, it was her right. I had left her in charge. Did the cat remember me? He settled back with me easily enough. He shared my Social Security money without guilt: coming and going through the dirty window, himself yet not himself, as I was.

He would lie along the back of the dirty armchair, staring at me as I paced and muttered, cried and ranted, without comment accepting me.

He came to the window just now and found it closed. I can’t walk. I tried, I really did: my leg would not let me. I got out of the chair somehow, and began to crawl, but I think I lost consciousness: when I realised again who and where I was, the windowsill was empty. The cat was gone. Perhaps he will never come back? I wouldn’t, if I were him, and betrayed.

It was not his fault, nor mine. But I feel I should have done better. Listen, I am going to die: murdered by a thoughtless girl on a bus, but never mind all that. There isn’t much time. I must offer you what I can.

Watch Praxis. Watch her carefully. Look, listen, learn.

Then safely, as they say to children, cross over.