  moving is a bitch. i had to leave my cat and her three kittens behind, and tomorrow we're bringing them to the SPCA. they kill them if no one adopts them within a week, my sister pointed out, as we lay on the floor of our emptied former house, running our fingers over the soft exposed bellies of our kittens. i tried not to think of that, tried not to think of soft little pink noses and trusting dark eyes closed and stilled and cold forever.
i'd rather they be dead than starving and abandoned and cold on the streets, i said instead, with the downy milk-filled belly of one kitten moving drowsily beneath my stroking fingers. their eyes have just opened, and they still look rather cross-eyed, and they're beautiful babies. sometimes i hate moving, and i hate strange beds, and i know i told E that i'm used to sleeping in strange beds, but isn't that such an oxymoron?
and more than anything, i hate leaving things behind and cutting things off, viciously, because it'll hurt more to let it drag out and linger. so. i don't care about those kittens, and i don't care about my cat, and i won't dream about the way she looked at me when i sang her to sleep. i won't. 
