Half-way

Half-way Home

It’s a long ride but a longer walk
hauling my old bike. In the rain. I
know the half-way point, it’s at the top
of a long hill, the worst of the three
mile ride. I sigh and begin hauling
the heavy steel frame up the hill. I
thought my second-hand bike was so cool rain in road
and retro when I found it. But half-
way to the top, I hear a sound, a
pathetic mewling. And there in the
ditch lies a half-grown cat, covered with
mud, blood, twigs, leaves and grass, terror and
hope shimmering in its golden eyes.

I take off my jacket, ignoring
the drizzle, and carefully approach.
Poor thing is desperate for help, even
from a stranger. I’m not sure how hurt
it is, so I scoop it up in my
jacket and put it in the basket
of my antique bike. Somehow, the trip
home doesn’t take nearly as long as
I thought it would. Sometimes a flat tire
is more that what it seems. It can be
an opportunity to find a
new best friend. I named her Marigold.

Kitten

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