I buried her,
a tiny ball of fur
too small for my hands.
And there were no mourners,
except the cat.
I could hear her,
rummaging through the closet,
for her first and the only kitten.
My heart ached,
for I felt I had tricked her,
into believing,
that she was still there.
While I, teary eyed,
wrapped the lifeless creature in my favorite handkerchief.
And with a shovel set to work,
digging on in the hush of the night.
And all the while I heard,
not a cat,
but a mother,
scrambling through heaps of clothes,
and all the while,
I had the little one.
Lifted her up and filled that clumsy grave of sorts,
covered it up with regret and dismay.
And sat there, still.
Hushed up in the calmness of loss.
Dear, dear is pain to me,
O that I wasn’t such frail hearted,
O for the firmness of sentiments!
Woe, woe is me!


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