water for the cats

what a dark story that is.

Haunting.

searing.

a little girl who's job it was, to twice a year, drown all the newborn kittens born to the barn cats.

To go to the pump and fill the milking pail with water for the cats. Her lean frame struggling to carry it back to the barn doorway.

How do you reconcile with that kind of pain in your young soul?

How do you walk amongst the sunny people and not reveal your dark shadow?

How do you live with such a secret?

How do you shut out the sounds of those tiny, tiny claws frantically scratching on the milk pail sides?

What a horror show peoples lives can be.

What a evil place the heart of man is.

Oh yes indeed.

Why did she confess this horror story to me near the end of her life?

Why was I chosen to share this pain with her?

Did she know her words were being spoken to a writer?

To one who could not unhear them?

One who would forever be burdened with carrying the image and the weight of it?

...one who would some day weave that horror into writing and leave it  carved into the fabric of life, so everyone could bear witness to her pain?

Shouting her secret aloud.

till everyone hears...

and carries it too.