Casa Walsh

There’s a stretch of Broadway that is home to a string of antique stores and auction houses that all operate on a sporadic or by-appointment-only schedule. Black Ink and the Museum of Useful Things recently merged to make room for another one of these shops. Smack in the middle of this block is a storefront with no name or list of operation hours. It’s filled with junk: stacks of yellowing papers, pieces of furniture, and many dusty, unidentifiable objects. I’ve never seen anyone in there. Except for a very old, black cat. I’ve walked by the window hundreds of times and never once has the cat not been on its widowsill pillow. He changes positions, sometimes curled up tightly, sometimes sitting with his legs folded underneath him. It worries me a little to think of the day when the cat won’t be there anymore. Maybe because it will signal some great change in my life. Or maybe because it will mean the cat is dead.

“broadway kitty”