Friday, August 26, 2011

Lasting Things

Several years ago, I adopted a kitten. I was living alone and going to university on the West Coast. The first week, I was unaccustomed to the furry purry in my bed and started to lock her out of my bedroom in the night. Each morning, she would wake me up early crying piteously at the door. I would shout "NO!" and refuse to let her in, leaving her mewing for hours. She was a little kitten and all alone.

Even though there have been things in my life that have made me cry, or shudder with fear, or rock with laughter, or even scratch my own chest in despair: surely I've wronged people, missed opportunities, lost things, broken things, or cared immensely for things I couldn't have, keeping a kitten locked out of my bedroom is, today, the heaviest weight I bear on my heart. Now, years later, I continue to kick myself and wish I could go back in time and just open the door.

Why is it the little things that come creeping back, years later to wring our hearts with importance, as we steadfastly leave behind the people and events that at one time or another meant the world?

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