Yesterday, Rob asked me about a box on our curb. It had a towel and a car floor mat in it. I didn’t recognize either, but figured that someone had pulled it out of their car while loading some yardsale item in. Granted, it hadn’t been there the day of the yard sale, but neither of us could think of another reasonable idea.

Today, the towel blew off the box.

There’s been this stray cat hanging around our house for about a month. It’s a poor scrawny thing, with patchy fur. It was in the box. I wanted it to be sleeping, but what cat would sleep inches away from a busy road?

Someone must have hit it with their car and tried to find the owner. I mean, they took the time to stop and put it in the box and cover it with the towel. I wonder if they picked our house because that’s where the cat was headed or because one of our neighbors told them that we have a black cat.

I’ve got this strange mix of sadness and relief. The sadness is easy to understand. But the relief? She never looked happy and she’s not struggling to survive anymore. That’s not it though, not really. I’m relieved that she wasn’t my cat. I’m relieved that I know she was feral and that no one is sitting at home wondering where she is. And then that makes the sadness comes back around.

The county animal control is coming to pick up the body.

I am living in a stranger’s house. It is not the boxes which make it so; it is the absence of things. We sold the steamer trunk which served as our bathroom cabinet. As we were carrying it out, I realized that I’d owned it for nearly twenty years. I bought it in college and moved it around with me, but it has no place in NYC and is not truly irreplaceable. I have, in fact, coveted nicer ones that I couldn’t justify because I owned this one. I didn’t mind selling it.

But when I walk into the bathroom, it is no longer part of my house. This room belongs to someone else already.