At my Doorstep
When I finally lifted the metallic bucket filled with water almost to the brim, a piece of cloth wrapped around my bosom and my sponge dish in my left hand ready to rush to the bathhouse; I was stopped in my track.
She sat there, at my doorstep, alone and sad. I pitied her. I had grown attached to her–she had become an inseparable part of my life–because we had so much in common. She had lost her mother just two weeks after her birth and her big sister had passed on exactly a week after. It was an awful experience. I had lost my mother too; but not at such tender age. And my big sister had looked after us for a while before her sudden demise. So when Amos stared at her creepily with those eyes, almost bulging out from his sockets and a sinister smile, licking his lower lip afterwards, I bawled, “Please don’t do that to her.”
She’s still at my doorstep with a linger of hope in her sad eyes. It’s not her first time though. I know what she wants, so I scream “Senam! The kitten needs food.”