'Now You Have to Pee Again' by Trasie Sands

It’s surprising how much light the moon and the snow make between them when you need the outhouse in the blackness of a Nova Scotia winter and it’s good, because the cold beauty distracts you from the fact that you have to sit on the cold plastic seat attached too tight with screws splitting the wood so it will always shift a little as you sit, listening to the night sounds, shivering but trying not to breathe in the stink, hoping the warmth of your own piss is enough to keep you until you can pull up your pants and rush back into the old house that never had insulation where your stepfather insisted no night-time fire so you have to run into the bed to cover up as fast as possible and it’s no wonder the cats don’t care if they’re inside or outside at night, like your cat, Bonnie who hasn’t come back for days so it’s not like you’re sleeping very well to begin with when she yowls loud enough to wake up the whole province and you’re headed outside to the forest with a blanket and some milk to help her home, proud of the cat mother you’ve been, excited to see your missing baby, under a tree, hissing, protecting five tiny little babies of her own while you think how will I get them all onto the soft blanket, behind you, your stepfather arrives because of the yowling of that damn cat and he’s brought his potato sack because we can’t afford to look after all these fuckin’ kittens and you should go to bed right now, young lady but you realize now you have to pee again.