Trinity Richardson

Juno

February was concrete in its application; October was more theoretical. The cashier tells me kittens shouldn’t have cow’s milk. The bottle splatters against the pavement in a way that reminds me I don’t know what I’m doing. I keep her cradled to my chest hoping if she can hear my heartbeat she’ll know what I can’t say. The years wash over me—what feels like one is actually three. This is a confession. The powerline hums and I imagine an angel running through the wires. I imagine taking the train to work. I am afraid I will never know what has become of you. Or worse, what will become of us. I am lonely in a way I’ve never been, because this time there is no reason for it. I go to work. I pick up groceries. I make cheesecake and let her have a small bite. It’s not that good, but it keeps me busy and I like the way the cream tastes before I bake it. She likes it. She is fixated on fire and sometimes I forget to put a candle out of reach and she singes her fur. I always feel guilty. This is a confession.