i've been feeding my mom's friend's cat for about three days. her friend is out of town, so he is paying me to do this. today, while i was walking on the little path that leads to his house, i was listening to neil young. i was wearing my grandpa's knitted sweater, my uncle's red scarf and my big brother's black leather backpack. the snow had left the ground, my shoes were dry. the grass straws cracked as i walked over them. the weather was too good to be in the end of january. when i got to the house i had to stop. i got a really great feeling, just looking at it. i've been there many times before, but this time it was different, there was nobody there but me. the house has plants growing on the wall, all the way up to the top windows on the third floor. a big, blue wooden door, with concrete stairs leading up to it. the white paint is starting to peel off the walls. the garden so sealed from the rest of the neighbourhood, with naked apple trees that had been covered with snow all winter. i went inside, where the cat was waiting for me. i filled up his plate of food, and his water bowl too. i walked into the livingroom, filled with almost nothing but books and old records. the cat followed me with his eyes, while i looked around, took out some of the albums and put them back again.
i went outside, and locked the door. i walked through the garden, and sat down on the top of this hill that was there. i lit a cigarette. this is the house i want to live in, i thought. when i grow old. with a grey cat, old records and a winecellar, i could sleep, read, listen and grow old there. maybe even try writing something.
then i thought of you. and how i'd like to take you there, and show you the garden, the trees and the cat. and i thought of how you would probably like it too, and that you would agree. and that we would sit down on the top of the hill, in the garden, and share a cigarette, while talking about the records we would play, the wine we would drink, the things we would do.