The bats were dying in the hay loft. Each time I climbed the ladder another bat would lie lifeless in the scattered straw with its wings spread like angel wings in a Christmas play: gauze stretched on wire. The bats were black and overlarge with furry, round heads and jet eyes that seemed to stare through life to the beyond.
The kittens scampered to me over the plank floor, skidding to a stop in the loose straw near the feet that feed them. One of the kittens saw the dead bat then; with her tiny jaws she grabbed whatever she could of the bat's head and dragged the carcass away. I worried for the kitten, wondered about rabies or other diseases, but in the end I refused to interfere. It was the natural order of things.
Monday, May 15, 2006
I received a dollhouse someone made for me. It came in a rectangular, white shopping bag with jute handles, and I carried it everywhere. No one was curious about the bag or its contents, because they, too, were laden with bags, each one holding secrets. I finally found a private place to sift through the contents of the gift. There were a hundred tiny items to put in the dollhouse, miniscule things intended for other purposes, but with magic they'd been transformed to fit a doll's life. I put everything back in the bag, wanted to hide it somewhere, keep it from those who would spoil it, hold all the pieces close to my heart. I felt loved.