By Madeline Torbenson

I went down to the river to pray because that seemed the thing to do. Luna finds a half-submerged rabbit possum squirrel or something. I can’t smell it, so I figure it’s safe for her to chew on. The river sucks bones dry until they are just bones. The day is a stout careless blue, and I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to be praying. Luna is chewing, the water is chattering and bright with sun, and I keep losing my place. How must it feel to come too late to be best loved? Luna is twelve years old, and the cat is five. The cat never got a name. Meow cat stripey cat fat cat here kitty kitty we call him, and pick him up and feel his pink toes and pat his head. Then we put him down and go inside where we all live and Luna lives but the cat does not live. I remember I am supposed to be praying. What is there to do? I ask. In the school library I could check out Frog and Toad, The Velveteen Rabbit. I learned to bake raspberry thumbprint cookies. I rented Twilight, though I’ve already seen it. I bought paints on Amazon when I wanted to paint, I applied to jobs I was not qualified for. Now I am haunted by love that is not there. I am a cat with no name. How do I unhaunt myself? The river is taking too long to carry away this ghost. It chokes me to want quietly, inactively. Like a dog to its sick, like licking a wound, I choke. Luna keeps chewing. The river slides softly by.

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Madeline Torbenson is a first-year medical student who lives by a river and enjoys hanging out with her dog.