Last night I hit a cat.

I've never hit an animal with my car before.
I've been in a car that has hit an animal,
but it's different when you're the one driving.

It was late. It was drizzling.
I was coming home from work.
My right eye was blurry.

I live in the country off of a gravel road.
I was two minutes from home,
at the top of the big hill.

It shot out from the dark brush on the right.
They teach you in driver's ed not to swerve
if an animal comes at your car.

I didn't swerve. I wish I had.
It's different when you're the one driving.
I felt it, in my bones. In my heart.

I heard it, too, over the roar of violins from my radio.
I coasted twenty feet; threw the car in park.
I put on my flashers, since that's what you should do.

I haven't cried that hard since we put my own cat down.
I didn't know I had it in me to sob that viscerally.
I think I'll feel that cat in my bones until I'm dead.