The grass at the end of the garden is always full of movement. Chubby little shadows that race away when you approach too quickly, hiding under laminated sheets carefully stapled to the fence. Each has a name and a year, eight in a row spanning a childhood.
At night the shadows run the full length of the garden, eating whatever plant they feel like and fearing nothing. Cats can't hurt them any more, neither can the cold nor the rain nor can the cancer that killed five of them and weakened the other three.
Their owners don't visit them like they used to, not now that they're grown up. What time do they have now for the little bundles of life that they'd once treasured? Most days they don't even remember all eight names, let alone their little faces.
The owners used to come by every Saturday morning and leave strawberries under every name (except for Skittles, she always preferred cucumber). They would talk to the ground and they would be heard by the little shadows who'd run after them until they reached the back door.
Now they chase each other through the tall grass and wonder whatever happened to their owners.
At night the shadows run the full length of the garden, eating whatever plant they feel like and fearing nothing. Cats can't hurt them any more, neither can the cold nor the rain nor can the cancer that killed five of them and weakened the other three.
Their owners don't visit them like they used to, not now that they're grown up. What time do they have now for the little bundles of life that they'd once treasured? Most days they don't even remember all eight names, let alone their little faces.
The owners used to come by every Saturday morning and leave strawberries under every name (except for Skittles, she always preferred cucumber). They would talk to the ground and they would be heard by the little shadows who'd run after them until they reached the back door.
Now they chase each other through the tall grass and wonder whatever happened to their owners.
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