Day 23: Beastie

Word of the Day:

beastie

noun

  1. Chiefly Literary. a small animal, especially one toward which affection is felt.
  2. Facetious. an insect; bug.
  3. Canadian Slang (chiefly Alberta). construction worker.

*fights urge to copy and paste “To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough”*

She was but a wee bonnie beastie, a’ fluffy an’ purrin’ awa’ like it was the cantiest day ye e’er kent tae be alife.  An’, aiblins, ’twas—th’ braw wee hin’ was finally haem.

Yes, this is two sentences, but it took me a while because my Scottish English is rusty, okay?  Furthermore, if you can figure out what I wrote about, then and only then will I defend my topic choices to you. *haughty sniff*

Cara Kennaway

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3 thoughts on “Day 23: Beastie

  1. “Hello, beastie,” she’d always whisper in her wavering voice as I came through the door. And I’d scramble up onto her bed, bearing handmade gifts or handpicked flowers and a dozen stories from the last week or two. She’d run her trembling hand up and down my back the whole time I spoke, always smiling. There was something truly radiant about her smile. It was a smile that said she was really happy to see me – that there was no one in the world she’d rather be with. Nobody else has ever made me feel as wanted and welcome as she did. Nobody else ever could.

    No one told me she was sick. If I’d been older, I would’ve been able to tell, of course. But I wasn’t. I was young and innocent and I thought she would always be there, smiling that smile and admiring my presents for her and listening to me talk. The day I came running into her room only to find that she wasn’t there was the day I left my childhood behind. Hell, she *was* my childhood. Her, and that sunny room, and those long afternoons spent with her hand on my back.

    I don’t know whether I believe in any heaven or not. Most days I don’t care. Other days I tell myself that I’m far too existential as is and I don’t need to be worrying about death and what comes after on top of everything else. But I will say this: if there is some sort of heaven out there, I know just what it looks like. It’s her, smiling in a doorway, standing, actually standing for once in her life, with her arms outstretched, whispering, “Hello, beastie…”

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