Those nights that I couldn’t sleep I waited anxiously for my family to drift off before I crept down the stairs from my bedroom. I silently put on my sneakers, dragged the heavy front door closed behind me, and walked the streets.
The night wrapped around my youth, and I studied it, observing its every angle. I kept busy by mowing the lawns of sleeping home-owners with a scythe. I joylessly performed BMX tricks in pyjamas on a moonlit dirt mound while every other child in a seven kilometre radius was asleep.
Every night I crossed the paths of solitary cats. They weren’t waiting for the end of the world like I was. Instead, they trusted their lives and the air in their lungs. As I walked I saw only the flashing eyes of calicos, tabbies and maine-coons who watched the night for signs of prey. After a hundred nights of walking, the cats came to the tips of driveways to greet me as I passed. I never gained their trust, but I did learn their tricks. They taught me to trust myself, to live free, avoid people, take what I need, worry less, and stick to the shadowy side of the street.
