New year in Australia is very hot. There is the sunshine, the heat, the beach, and the cat. That cat that stands beside the windowsill every morning, and walks along the red-brick walls. With elegance she would swing her grey-white hair in the breeze and sit in front of my canvas, blocking my view of the trees. With the window glass between us, we communicate in our safest distance. "How are you today?" I'd say. If I go near, she would walk away. I would peek at her behind my canvas and watch her clean her fair hair in the sunlit day. With a swing of her tail she would start talking about the lives on her way. One day it is a falling gentle leaf, and the other day it is a bird bathing in a fountain. And then there was a day when she walked near, her belly swollen. I ponder upon her joy and sorrow being a cat. And then one day, the day before new Year's Eve, I sat and waited, but she did not appear. for some days I had waited, but she had never appeared again. it was the third season in Australia. And the winter was very warm. And the following season I left, never again returned. I see her in my mind now, just now, in the New Year eves here sunshine is no longer to be seen, the cat's blue eyes in my mind. "how are you today?" She never replied.