Superstitions mean little to me. My mother, however, would have me cross the street if a black cat was ever in sight. They’re a bad omen she told me, as her mother had told her, and so on for generations beyond my counting.
So deeply ingrained had this tradition become, that to this day I give these dark felines a wide berth.
Today, the irrational fear came to fruition. On my regular commute home I crossed paths with a furry little omen. The black cat sat, glaring at all who passed. Most paid little to no attention, other than a sidestep so as not to tread on the stubborn beast. As I was taught, I made my way to the other side of the road.
No sooner had I reached the parallel footpath, than a balcony, age worn—or mystically released— descended with a thunderous clap pulverising the path I would have taken.
Somehow, the black cat skittered from the dust cloud, unharmed by the falling balcony and resulting debris.
I stopped, frozen in shock, pondering an unanswerable question.
Did a black cat save my life?
Happy Black Cat Appreciation Day!