At the end of summer, Claire moved out of her beloved and superbly-priced Mission studio, since she was heading off to business school.
She loaded her clothes, Craigslist-scored Le Corbusier chaise, and pre-med books into a rental car. We drove down to our parents’ place in Rowland Heights.
I thought the drive was going well, when I heard her say over my voice, “Do you . . . ever . . . stop . . . talking?”
Two orange tabby brothers followed us home in December. They lived with us for five weeks, snuggling, wrestling, running around like madmen and punching each other in the face, until their owners saw our “found” signs (which had been posted in front of their house for weeks).
Chupa misses them a ton. They shredded furniture, ate Kolinsky brushes and laptop screens, farted intense farts on our laps, pawed wet paintings and shoved my brush around whenever I painted, but they were cute and soft fuzzballs.
Several years ago, Mom and I visited Japan during cherry blossom season. While there, Mom found out that her mom had cancer and was awaiting surgery in the hospital.
That night, Mom lay on the bed in our room at the ryokan. “Emmie, my mom is sick . . . what if I lose her?” she asked.
I tried to think of something kind and comforting to say.“Well, she is 86,” I said.