Tracing the path of a butterfly, I
meet this cat. White with secretive ash spots. I offer
a curried fish. She declines. Story repeats the next day.
On the third day, she eats. The unnerving look
disappears. The pride of the  room
I am in. My delusions remain. And, a friendship forms.
Conversation happens between Tamil and meowing.
Doi, her name.
My life soars.
She slips away one day. Just
like that. My brain intensifies the gulping loss.
What was the point? I ask. Why short lives
for dogs and cats, feral god? Grief.
All because of that wandering butterfly.