12/28/2019 – Francy has found a spot in the bay window to moonbathe, the tufts of dark fur between her pink toes perky and her green eyes half shut. She’s a chunky cat, sturdy but mainly fur, not fat. Her soft belly slops down over the back of the leaf green velvet side chair and she’s frames by linen curtains, the pale, glowing moonlight shining through the night. I’m packing up Christmas decorations, wrapping them in gold speckled tissue paper before storing them in my wooden pirate chest. It’s bittersweet to do this chore alone, but for the company of a large half-asleep cat. The tissue paper crinkles and Francy’s ears twitch in annoyance, so I turn on Marlene Dietrich’s greatest hits. “Can a woman like Marlene even have greatest hits?” I muse, as I tenderly wrap a glass goldfinch ornament with a long feathered tail. It seems trite to apply the popish term “greatest hits” to a Nazi fighter. Marlene glares at me from the cover of the album, equal parts fierce and sultry. I tuck the goldfinch next to a slightly tarnished bluebird as I sing along to “The Boys in the Backroom” Francy does not join in, but the phone rings, and suddenly I’m not as lonely.