The Brambles

[bruorton]

"Grief is love's souvenir.
It is our proof that we once loved."
--Glennon Doyle Melton


You remember that time she got out?
she asks. Of course I do. Years ago,
early January, my brother was taking
care of our cats while we were away
for a few days, and we came home
well after dark to learn that somehow

the younger one had gotten out.

The ground was already covered
in a hard crust of snow and we were

instantly petrified. She never went

outside. She wouldn't know how to
survive, she might get confused and

not know where to come to be saved.

We rushed out into the darkness,

calling, hoping, desperate. We
could not bear the thought of
losing this sweet, affectionate
kitten who had found her way into
our hearts and never grew up.

We could not bear to think of her

afraid, or in pain.

But then, there came an answer.
An anxious mewing, up the hill.
And off my wife charged, straight
through the raspberry thicket to

where the frightened little cat

crouched, shivering, crying out

for rescue.

Tonight it is we who shudder; we

who wonder where home is now.

I would run through any amount
of brambles to have her back,
she says, remembering.
I didn't even feel them.

But we were always running

through the brambles.
We just never felt them

until now. The love we

gave and got has left us

scarred, a crosshatching
on our lives, every laceration
a treasure.

Comments

[kaph.livejournal.com]

Oh, hon. xoxoxoxo