The perseverance of the three legged cat that sleeps in my alley pulls me from my bed each morning.

It stretches its hind leg, taking no time to remember when stretching was a simpler task, minding the gap, yet not feeling empty.

It limps from my alley and continues its search for food, or meaning, or whatever cats search for, and I limp into my bathroom, searching for meaning, but settling for a toothbrush.

I scrub away last night’s dreams of teeth falling from my mouth.  I remember feeling the weight of my off-white molars in my palm, the rough outer edges in numb fascination. I spit the memory into my sink, and rinse.

The kitchen window has a nicer, if less inspirational, view than its brother in my bedroom.  I’ve watched the tree that blocks the city be reborn a dozen times, yet I still feel anticipation every time the brownorangered starts, and I wonder when I’ll grow new leaves.  I grab the sugar bowl from the table for morning coffee, but my grip is weak - I’ve always had trouble holding onto things.  The bowl slips from my fingers, and the ground is covered with porcelain, off-white shards.  I study them, finding a home in the familiarity, and begin to pick up the pieces.