By Roberta P. Gardner

One of my earliest memories of writing in school was a failed scribble drawing of my deceased cat, Honey. She wasn’t officially my cat, but I was the one who played with her every day, and I let her know that she was loved. I used to sneak her bowls of milk and slices of cheese, and I gave her a name. I was a latchkey kid, and Honey and I played together every day after school. One day as we were playing, I chased her into the street and she was hit by a car that almost hit me, too. Honey died. I considered it my fault, and for a long time, I couldn’t get the screech of the cat or the car out of my mind. The images of Honey’s deflated body and the lurching car were recurring phantoms.

A few days after Honey…