Drowning

When I came home,

everyone was in a panic.

My sister had tried to pick up

one of the new kittens, and

the mother, surprised,

reached out and snagged its skin,

peeling it back head to tail.

They had wrapped the kitten

in a blanket, to protect it,

because they had heard that

mother cats will eat their injured young,

and to muffle its mewling.

There was no way to save it.

I filled the bathtub, and

cradled the kitten in my hand,

lowered it slowly into the water.

It was warm, which I somehow thought

would be more comforting.

It didn’t take long for its struggle

to cease as its lungs filled.

It was so small

we flushed it down the toilet.

For days, the cat would wander through the house,

looking for its missing kitten. For days,

my sister was afraid to even look at the kittens,

asking me over and over what it felt like

when the kitten drowned. A small grace,

to not be named a killer.

It was easier than I expected;

I did not know I had even that small strength.

I still remember the surprise:

how such a small thing

fights so strongly, how a mother

misses everything that is lost,

even if only for a short while.