I want to tell you about the time
I, as a child, rode a palomino bareback
at a hippy commune, and it ran wild
toward a closed gate that it would have
jumped, but for the heroics of a naked
guy on a chestnut gelding.
I want to tell you about my family's first dog,
adopted at the cusp of my teen years,
with whom I took long walks and
had endless soul-baring talks, until
she was given away.
I want to tell you about my gray hamster,
whose curiosity got the best of him
when he escaped his cage once
too often, and came face to face
with the cat on duty.
I want to tell you about one of my goldfish,
who lived seven years in a bowl
I wish I'd changed more often, and
for whom my grandfather cared
after I left for college.
I want to tell you about three of my most-beloved
cats, and how--after 14 years--
my heart shatters
a little every day because
I had to leave them behind
to escape a life-threatening situation.
I want to tell you about one of life's
true miracles, which flows in
through the cracks and crevices in
the walls I've built around my heart,
softens the edges of past losses,
takes my hand, and leads me--its
willing victim--toward the next
beloved, the next heartbreak,
the next salvation.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six