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.