Lydia Aswolf

I have returned.

It was a good vacation, as vacations go.

I have more blog material.

Used my eyes wisely.

Opened my ears.

Kept my mouth shut.

I heard a story while I was on vacation.

About a girl in love with the idea of being in love.

She got married.

To the idea, if not the man.

Brides, I’ve found, expect everything to go swimmingly.

Grooms, too.

Both parties believe they will be walking hand in hand for the rest of their lives.

In a park.

Turning to gaze at their partner lovingly.

I have a problem with that.

You and I know they are going to fall face first on the pavement.

No one.

And I mean no one.

Walks along a smooth paved path in life.

There are bumps.

There are obstacles.

And this girl met the bumps and obstacles.

She should be proud.

She tried to plan a gentle route up and over the bumps.

Tried to tear down the obstacles.

She did everything she could.

Yet now she feels she’s the black sheep.

The one who didn’t do enough.

Didn’t try harder.

Didn’t walk away when he argued, gestured.

Didn’t flinch when he came close to hitting her.

She betrayed no fear when he played with a gun in their living room after a fight.

She held on as long as she could.

Some would say longer than she should.

She fell in love with love.

Love, which is only a thing unless it is attached to a person.

A thing you cannot sustain alone.

But she tried.

That’s what counts, right?

Trying.

But no one told her.

No one tells most people.

That while there might be a light at the end of the tunnels you must travail.

All you can see in dark times is the pavement in front of you.

Sometimes you have to crouch to see it.

Sometimes all you can do is make your way forward on your belly.

The best you can do is hope.

Hope to find light and space enough to stand up and stretch your weary muscles.

Before you crawl forward again.

I will be going on vacation for the next two weeks.

People watching.

I won’t be blogging.

I’ll be looking.

For new material.

New observations.

The every day lessons I learn by merely watching.

I thought it fitting to put an end to this tragic trilogy of the kittens.

Two of whom were there one day.

Gone the next.

The last kitten got closer to us.

Cocked her head and gazed at me.

Tried to figure me out.

She was braver than her sisters.

But her bravery didn’t save her.

I wondered, as I buried her in the achingly small grave.

Covered it with what wildflowers I could find in a drought.

Prayed over the small body interred too soon.

How it was her mother could sit nearby, washing herself.

As if nothing ever happened.

Mother looked at me briefly when I came back to the deck.

Went back to washing her face.

Everything seemed fine to her.

It didn’t to me.

A whole family lost.

I thought her cold and indifferent at the time.

It was the week after I had my usual bout of insomnia.

It comes and goes.

Sleepless nights with too many thoughts crammed in my head.

I wandered out four nights that week.

Midnight and later.

Getting some fresh air.

Hoping a brisk wind might sweep the thoughts out of my head.

Let me sleep a little.

I heard an awful sound when I emerged on the deck those nights.

Every one of those nights.

Sounds of an animal injured grievously, crying out in pain.

I didn’t think; I turned on my porch light immediately.

Hoping to help.

But I couldn’t.

Mother cat had caught large mice; one each night.

The mice were dead by the time I heard her cries.

But she wasn’t eating them.

Mother cried out piteously and looked around her anxiously.

She was looking for her kittens.

They didn’t answer her calls.

Four nights I rose after midnight.

Four nights I heard her cry out.

Looking for what was missing.

What could never be replaced.

I suffered insomnia again the past couple nights.

Mother cat came to keep me company.

Her mourning done.

She wound her way around my ankles purring last night.

This formerly feral cat.

I’ll never know if she did it because she appreciates what I did for her daughters.

Or because she has no one else to give her love to.

I was wrong about her.

So many are.

Look at the smiling faces around you today.

One of those warm, enthusiastic faces beaming at you today.

Might belong to someone who suffers from crippling depression.

Someone who lost those they loved best.

Perhaps they lost their home.

Their health.

Their innocence.

Yet they go on.

And they give.

For the same reason Mother cat goes on.

For the same reason she gives.

They will never forget.

But they must move on.

A Mother and daughter sit on the deck together.

Eventually, Mother lies down.

Daughter scampers to and fro.

Anyone can see she wants something.

Wishes for a little action.

Longs for some movement on a hot, hot day.

Her siblings have gone.

Long, long ago.

She knows not where.

But she is a kitten.

There is no time for wondering.

Only time for play, while youth and playfulness exist.

A well timed leap at Mother’s tail gets little result.

I watched her and smiled for a bit.

Before turning to other, more important work.

But I was not the only one watching.

I knew nothing until the kitten’s wish was granted.

There was movement.

There was action.

But there was nowhere to run, and very few places to hide.

The ambush was well thought out.

I didn’t see it all.

I rushed to the deck door when I heard the noise.

Saw Mother streak off, followed by a pack of wild dogs.

I assumed the kitten had run to the car.

To safety.

Mother reappeared after a few hours.

We all thought it was only a matter of time before her daughter appeared again.

But she didn’t appear.

So I searched.

It didn’t take me long to find her.

Under the deck.

I had never been able to stroke her head in life.

I felt no great joy to do so upon her death.

But I stroked her, anyhow.

Hatred killed the kitten.

The hatred certain dogs have for cats.

Certain heterosexuals have for homosexuals.

Certain Christians have for Muslims.

Certain Nazi’s felt for Jews.

The kitten died on the same day as Rodney King.

He who was beaten mercilessly at the hands of those who were sworn to serve and protect.

Their hatred got the best of them.

But not of him.

The question he asked then remains relevant today.

It remains to be seen if we can summon up the courage to answer.