Wednesday, November 21, 2012



Sitting at the loom, she tried to mentally organize her raging thoughts. The land belonged to her and yet it was being taken from her. She grew up in this farm, she worked the land with her father, she helped with the house chores, and she knew the pack of wolves that visited her since childhood and that never killed one of her animals, the generations of feral cats. Woven in her soul was the sound of the wind whispering at the edge of the forest where she used to wait for the wolves, “sit where I can still see you”, her father demanded. This was her past and her present. They were stealing her future away. The land would be ripped open by a highway. At least they wouldn’t go into the forest; it was “too expensive”. The wolves would be ok. Sitting at the loom, she wove one last blanket for the cats that walked in and out of her house where the door was always open. In the city, the cats would have warmth, food and love. Yes, they would. “The six of us, we’ll be unwilling prisoners of a world we don’t belong to with woven memories keeping us alive.”

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