I think the fluffy white cat in the alley is god

and there’s no way to say this—without sounding unwell—and so I guess—what I’m saying is—that I am not well—but there’s something about—how shiny her fur is—how it reflects in the sun—how she returns each morning—of her own free will—bathing in joy to scavenge and explore—the same path—this random alley in Columbus Ohio—until the spring—when she ventures into my backyard—and rolls around—sniffing and biting the same plant in my garden—and I slowly approach her—and she allows me to take photos—but not get too close—she rolls on her back—letting me know my company is okay—and my distance is safe—she returns to my backyard for weeks—until the summer arrives—and none of us—are prepared—for its wet hot air—and she disappears—and I wonder if she’s okay—if maybe she’s found relief in another backyard—or an alley with bigger trees offering shade—and I think maybe we needed each other—in that season—and what I am saying is—the fluffy white cat in the alley got me through the spring—and I don’t know if I would’ve made it without her—and maybe she left because she was needed—somewhere else—and what I mean is—I hope she reappears in your alley—or in your yard—or at the foot of your bed—while you toss and turn at night—and I hope—you find the sign you’re looking for—I hope—you have what you need—to make it through the season