It takes a couple days to fall back into the deep familiar of this old house.

It takes a minute to not be surprised when Lucca, the cat, follows me to the bathroom , because I may need him in the dodgy second floor neighborhood. Thugs and all. He’ll protect me, after his belly rub.

About three days to remember to step close to the bookcase so the floor won’t squeak so loud.

As soon as I’m acclimated to the quirky things particular to a 1933 house, time’s up and I’m repacking a bag for North again.

They know. The cats circle the bag and at least one sits on it, trying to hold me here.

My heart breaks off a large chunk to leave right there by my pillow so they can sit by me when I’m gone again.

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