I’m on our balcony, deep inside our mamasan chair. It’s 27 degrees Celsius, 7PM in the evening.

The sound of crickets dictates the evening sky.
A train passes by.
A scooter too.
Some kids are playing football.
Three birds fly by, steadily chirping.
Our television plays Charlotte’s show in the background. 

The smaller of our cats, Cobain, pokes his head around the balcony door. He chirps, as if he talks to the birds that flew by. But he’s not, he is talking to me. A quick scout around the balcony. A headbutt against my leg. A short jump into the chair. He lays down right next to me.

That’s when it hits me. So I tell him: “yes boy, this spot right here, right now, is the safest spot in the world.”