It was a dream. But the kittens are real.
I found them, one at a time, out in the new yard, in the driving, cutting rain. One's about 5 weeks old, very tiny, and feisty, thinks he's big. The other's about 3 weeks old, way too small to be out there, almost too small to be seen, just a puff.
I bring them into my daughter's house, one at a time, out of the pouring rain and away from the danger of being swooped up by a hawk or freezing to death in the cold. They get fed, dried, then tussle and tumble a little before falling asleep, unaware for now of the danger they face. Whose are they? We cannot keep them, can we?
I am a visitor to this house, a house in great turmoil and pain. I'm trying to deliver some peace, some Way back to home-ness for the people who live inside. The kittens have appeared like some great responsibility not taken. The dears. The pain of abandonment. Their lives. THEIR LIVES.
I am leaving, and leaving behind my prayers for this house, these people, constant prayers that never end.
Please, you who live here: I beg you, take care of these kittens. They are yours, I have come to believe.
