The Cat Who Chose Our Porch
On the quiet nearness of love.
He isn't ours. At least, not officially.
Henry belongs to a neighbor — a golden, gentle cat inherited from an aunt who passed away. He has every comfort: a tidy house, a soft bed, and all the things a cat could want.
And yet, most afternoons, Henry wanders to a back porch nearby. He climbs onto the couch, curls into the corner cushion, and basks in the slanting light. Rain or cold don't matter much — the porch is covered, and somehow, it's enough.
He has decided this is home.
The household loves him. Everyone who visits loves him.
So when Henry meows at the door, asking to come in, the door must be closed gently — and one must remain on the other side. He looks up with patient eyes, unoffended.
And still, he stays.
There is something about Henry's quiet persistence that makes one wonder:
How often love chooses us even when we cannot hold it close. How grace sometimes rests just outside the door, content simply to be near.
Sometimes presence itself is enough. Sometimes being seen is enough. Sometimes simply being there is the offering.
And that, too, is a gift.