Hot August sun burns into my pores.
I’m in the sandbox with my twin dolls, Molly and Polly.
I finally got them to sleep.
It wasn’t easy, what with little black ants crawling over them.
I swished them away without hurting them.
Except the leader.
I always kill the leader.
I’m eight years old.
Mom sent me to the barn for eggs.
When I opened the door, Fuzzy was crying.
Big, scary cries that made the hair on my arms stand up.
I asked her what was wrong.
She cried all the louder.
I reached into Silver’s stall.
That’s where the best hen lays her eggs.
Instead of an egg, I scooped out a kitten.
Then another and another until I had five kittens.
I placed them on the warm dry grass outside the barn.
They were dead.
I ran back to the house to tell Mom.
She said I found them.
It was up to me to bury them.
Me?
Yes.
Me bury them?
Yes.
Alone?
Yes.
You grow up fast on a farm.
You grow up fast and if you’re not careful, you grow up hard.
That’s what I worry about most.
I don’t want to be a crybaby, but I don’t want to be hard like some of the relatives.
Somewhere there must be a middle road.
A safe place where I can walk and not worry too much about things.
Years later I realized why Mom made me bury the kittens.
To make me strong for whatever was ahead.
