Had we followed our mind, it will be the peaceful, slow Sunday we so far only can dream of.
Instead, we thought of the stretch of chores awaiting the next day, dragged ourselves one more time, and rode all the way to the end, and restocked groceries.
Done, the cashier gave us a bigger smile than ever before that whole day, but there had to be one tiny cry, muffled, burrowed, short, desperate, that sent us scrambling as we rushed down to the parking lot.
There was no doubt that we were hearing things. We saw an empty pouch of Whiskas Junior just at the mouth of the pile of junk at that corner.
We looked at each other; Sheilla and I; and then we climbed discarded showcases, tables, shelves, even broken wheelchairs.
Sheilla crawled in, I held the flashlight in one hand, and held the hope high in the other. Hope high that no one spotted us and decided to be involved.
It took longer than we thought. At a glance it was just a pile of junk, but come to look at it again, it’s a pile of junk as tall and as wide as truck.
For her, it must be a jungle; scary and safe at the same time.
So which one is she to choose? Let a pair of stranger’s arms reaching out to her? For one moment she just keeps going deeper, and sees if her pursuer gives up.
When she sat in the corner, nowhere else to go, she let fate lead her to where she should be.
In Sheilla’s arms, inside our jacket, in our home.
For one day she sat by the grinder watching life pass by. Kittens chasing each other, mothers watching their children, old cats lounging at the side, two women around whom the world seems to go round.
The next day she ran without fear to the large plate with chicken, that she probably thought she would never get.
When she remembered how it all began, she would be back to the corner, but every time we found her, we said “Peek a boo!”
And she would run to the smile that flourished just for her.