Cat and Child

It rained the entire time we dug the little ditch.
Rained pretty hard.
But we had already waited hours for it to stop,
and the cat wrapped in a towel in the garage could not wait.

My daughter, not much bigger at the time than
the doll she cradled in her arms,
escorted me outside, as if the precious moments
from back door, to backyard were
more valuable to her than any gold we might
one day discover, or any dreams we might fulfill.

Thirteen. Pumpkin lived to an unlucky number,
I realized, as mud stuck to the bottoms of
our shoes like suction cups.
I lightly pushed the shovel into the mud with my foot.
My daughter began to say a prayer.

“Our farther, who art in heaven, hollow be thy name.”
I did not correct her. I dug, placed Pumpkin and the blanket
in the ditch that filled up with water like a bowl.
I filled the ditch with mud.

I loved Pumpkin. I still love Pumpkin.
When cold nights came my daughter wore her like a shawl.
Maybe soon we will forget all this.
But I don’t think life and death are ever forgotten.
Even as we die ourselves, I believe we think of those we have long forgotten,
And they in turn remember us.
As we stood in the rain in our own thoughts,
I leaned and pushed the miniature tombstone into the ground.