When she was twelve, she worked in overalls at the dairy farm with her father. 


SheÕd feed the chickens, stare at the pigs, brush the horses, and dance around with the turkeys.


At twenty-one she knew what true love was, and by thirty-five she had three children: Little Robert, Responsible William, and Studious Gertrude.


By sixty she was the churchÕs most valuable bingo player and everyoneÕs favorite grandmother.


At sixty-five, people started to notice something different about her.


She needed twenty-four hour supervision, so it was given.


People didnÕt visit because they couldn't take it.


Their pain caused her pain and loneliness.


But she soon forgot it all.


Though she felt it.


She didn't know.








Sunday School should be taught by cats. 


Not those fat grumpy fluff balls 

who god obviously punched in the face

after he lost his beloved cloud-chair by claw-fication,

but the slow-crawling black bundles of fur 

that know the alternate route to Mordor by heart, 

and often find themselves in Mount Doom 

whispering about Christ the King with Sauran

over milk and meow mix, pausing only occasionally 

to meditate to the sound of the boiling lava. 


The cats who would go so far as to jump through the moon

and scramble eggs at the top of Mount Everest

if it meant that one more throbbing mortal heart

would run with wobbly legs into ChristÕs arms

like a thirty-five year old man,

spilling sobs along his suitcase-crowded path to meet his wife, 

who has been in Kansas for two months that felt like years

as they were forced to be the only thing they didn't want to be:  apart.




© Amy Abrigo


Bio:  Amy Abrigo lives in Minnesota, where she studies Creative Writing at Concordia University.