I am maybe seven years old. It is summertime on the farm. One of our cats, a tabby named Charity,* has just given birth to kittens. When I discover them in the barn, I am beside myself with delight and wonder. I crouch down and gaze upon the five furry little miracles wriggling in the straw. I soon notice that one of them is smaller than the others. A lot smaller. Of course, this is the one I immediately claim as my own to protect and love. I gently pick up the mini kitten in my small hands and press her against my chest. Our bodies expand and contract in tandem as we breathe in the sweet, dusty, summer air.

I name her Hope. 

Tiny Hope’s eyes are closed, her miniature pink paws drawn up close to her face. Brown and black stripes run the length of her body in near-perfect symmetry. She mews silently and I think she is the most marvelous creature on earth. I kiss the top of her head and put her back in the straw bed, watching her and her squirming siblings search for the elusive teats on their mother’s white belly. It is a good day to be seven years old on a farm. 

The next morning, I race out to the red barn, eager to see Hope and the rest of the kittens. Charity glances up to acknowledge me as I approach. The mother cat is lying on her side, her belly barely visible underneath a squirming mass of mottled fur. There are five kittens in there somewhere, but it is hard to know where one begins and another one ends. I see a few kittens nursing, some are sleeping, one is lying still. I lift Hope and place her gently on her mother’s belly. She needs to nurse. She is so small. She doesn’t move. I lift her again to check if everything is okay and her head droops to the side. She is not breathing.

I sit there in the red barn on the scratchy straw and hold the tiny body in the palm of my hand. She fits perfectly. Hope is beautiful and rare. I love her as fiercely as my 7-year-old heart can. I hold Hope in my hand for a long time because I don’t know what else to do. I just want to be with her, to look at her perfectly formed nose and ears. I tuck the small tail closer to her torso. Soon her body starts to lose its warmth and stiffen.  

The mother cat meows and I lower my hand with its precious cargo. She needs to know that Hope and death now occupy the same space. After a few sniffs, Charity turns her attention back to her living kittens. I know it is time to find a place for Hope.

Outside the barn, the sun is shining brightly, the grass is green and vibrant, and the earth is soft underneath my bare feet. I find a spot in the shadow of the barn and kneel. I set Hope gently on the green grass and begin to dig with my hands. It is harder than I thought it would be. Scoop after scoop, I claw at the earth. There is sweat on my forehead and dirt under my fingernails. I pause to breathe. Just one of us breathing now. After what seems like days of digging, I finally carve an earth nest that is Hope-shaped. I lay her carefully in the shallow grave and begin the goodbye ceremony.

You are beautiful.

I love you.

I’m sorry your life wasn’t longer.   

I am happy you were born. 

I am sad, too. 

It is such a nice sunny day.

I hope you are okay here.

I will remember you.

Goodbye, Hope. 

God, please take care of her now.

I pat the earth over Hope’s perfect tiny body and feel a wave of emptiness. My eyes can’t see her anymore. My hands can’t touch her. I think about what a magnificent life she lived in that one day. I wipe the sweat and tears from my face. My hands and shirt are streaked with dirt. 

From dirt we come. To the dirt we return.

The farm is where I first learned that most everything is beautiful and altogether worthy of my attention. And that much of it is temporary. It was there that I learned to say hello to the wonder of life all around me. And it was there that I practiced saying frequent goodbyes to beloved beings. Beautiful are the things that don’t last, the only-here-for-a-day things. Precious are the moments that are breathtaking and the times when breath is no more. 

Goodbye is not a statement of finality. It is a shortened form of “God be with you.” It is a recognition that the journey continues but in a different way.

I celebrated Hope. I held Hope in the palm of my hand. I planted Hope in the ground. 

And Hope lives on, not only in my memory but also in the living earth on the east side of the red barn.  

Momento mori. Remember death.

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*We were Sunday School kids and sometimes the Bible was our inspiration for naming animals on the farm. My sister called an orange short-hair cat Sabteca, after a descendent of Cush (1 Chronicles 1:9). To this day, whenever I come across that name, I picture a man with short reddish hair. 

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