I lost the kitten that went with the mitten.
I don’t know where to find her.
She played in the sun.
When she was done,
she came to wash the dishes
as she followed my wishes
to help me with the dinner.
She said, “I’m the winner,”
to her Papa, who ate the chips
and threw about his quips
that he could eat before.
I lost the kitten that went with the mitten.
I don’t know where I’ll find her.
She said her stomach hurt.
She let out moans and blurts.
Later we went from a doctor to an ambulance
The rain poured, and I missed the semblance
when her face paled and life dispersed.
I called out to her strength at my worst.
In a hospital wing, the doctor said to me
“She is gone, and there is no way we
can revive her.”
I lost the kitten that went this mitten.
I don’t know where to find her.
In a Hemingway fashion, a Frozen bike for sale.
Barely used, and like her, strong; instead of frail.
No other kitten
could match the mitten.
A poem by Rebecca T. Dickinson, Corrie’s Mom
Corrie's Season 