Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. I'd guess that at least every other person reading this column did at one time, as a child, carry home some animal that he or she wouldn't be able to keep.
Here's Connie Wanek, who lives in New Mexico, remembering her son in just such a moment.
Connie's most recent book is a collection of her "Mrs. God" poems called Consider the Lilies, published by Will o' the Wisp Books.
Rain Changing to Snow
He came home from middle school with a wet kitten tucked inside his black leather jacket. He'd found it shivering in the tall grass flattened by rain. It could only belong to him for fifteen minutes and it understood that, I think. Though just a few weeks old, already it expected disappointment. Yet it began to purr, this scrap of cloud-gray fur, as he drew it forth to show me. Castaway (its name he said), so lonely and hungry after the shipwreck of another day at school.
Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. I'd guess that at least every other person reading this column did at one time, as a child, carry home some animal that he or she wouldn't be able to keep.
Here's Connie Wanek, who lives in New Mexico, remembering her son in just such a moment.
Connie's most recent book is a collection of her "Mrs. God" poems called Consider the Lilies, published by Will o' the Wisp Books.
Rain Changing to Snow
He came home from middle school with a wet kitten tucked inside his black leather jacket. He'd found it shivering in the tall grass flattened by rain. It could only belong to him for fifteen minutes and it understood that, I think. Though just a few weeks old, already it expected disappointment. Yet it began to purr, this scrap of cloud-gray fur, as he drew it forth to show me. Castaway (its name he said), so lonely and hungry after the shipwreck of another day at school.