I Grew Up Here

     I grew up here. There were far fewer cars when I was born, and my siblings and I could run freely through the tall grass, our tails and whiskers swishing wildly in the wind. Now the grass is gone and the wind is heavy with pollution. Too often, car oil sticks to my coat. It tastes like old bones and stagnant ponds when I try to lick it off.

     I grew up here. There were other cats here, long ago. We used to explore creeks and bound across fallen logs together. Sometimes the cicadas would emerge from their hideouts in the trees and we would chase their screeching chirps until dusk. Now the cicadas are silent and most of the cats have died. There is too much noise and too many people and too few logs left to bound across.

     I grew up here. The stars blanketed the night in dotted light when I was young, but the only light now comes from buzzing street lamps and buzzing lightning bugs. One of these bugs lands on my broken tail, but I cannot flick it away. It crawls up my coat and shimmers light green before taking to the air. For a moment, I am not alone.

     I grew up here. Now I will pass away here. There are no more siblings, no more cicadas, and no more stars. My coat is matted with oil and spilt soda, and years of  dirt from old adventures. I curl up behind a rusty dumpster, wishing I had my mother or my siblings or a friend as I lay beneath the thick sky. I hope there will be stars and siblings and fresh air after this. I hope there will be creeks and endless logs to bound across. I hope my fur will be soft and my tail straight like it once was.

     I hope there will be some place like the one I grew up in.

John 3:16-20

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