it was a long-gone Tuesday, and i was on my way to a place where i used to work when i came across a cat that’d been hit in the street. i remember expecting it sooner or later. where it happened, there was an old lady who let her cats run wild. when the weather broke, there were kittens all over her front steps. this scene, i remember thinking, was just a matter of time.

i remember hesitating for a moment before i pulled the car to the side of the street and got out. cars slid by my ride’s window and when things cleared, i got out and walked over to her on the sidewalk in the rain. still looking out at the damage in the street, i told her i was sorry.

she was crying softly.

without another word, i walked over to the middle of this busy city side street and looked down. i was scared to touch it – half-expecting it to jump up and claw at me or sink it’s teeth into my hand. in another world, i would have poked at it with a stick or nudged it with the toe of my shoe to be sure it wasn’t alive. but not on that day. i let my fingertips scrape the pavement as i slowly slid my hands underneath its body and cradled it to my chest.

i remember not wanting to let her know about the blood on my hands, not wanting her to feel bad about it. that would have been rude. and when she asked me to dig the grave, i couldn’t have refused. besides, the earth was soft from the rain and the flowers in the garden were just beginning to bloom. it was going to be easy for me and it felt good to be outside in spite of all the rain. that was another thing i didn’t want her to know.

i remember getting to work with blood on my shirt. there was mud on my pants, too, but that would have washed away soon enough.

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