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He was a small grey cat, used to sit at the edge of the gravel path.  Licking his paws, look up as we walked by.  We called him Grey Cat, me and my older sister.  Used to play on his path during the hours when the sun reached through the trees like the arms of a mother.  Til it got dark.  We thought he went to sleep, maybe curled up under the brush.  (Thats how young children think).  And then we went home too.  Home.  Home where the night made such heavy sounds on the stairs, wrenched open the door.  Oh God..., such horrible screaming as I grabbed my older sisters hand, and ran.  Oh we ran so hard and fast.  Down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, past the yard and out though the woods to turn and see the path.  The path that we played in during the mothering sun.  So dark now, we went down hand and hand, our bare feet cutting upon the gravel.  The trees swaying like dancers, their leaves rustling, snickering to us.  "A cat!?...a silly little grey cat you think shall protect you from him?"  And then suddenly, somehow, the moon threw so bright a shade of grey.  Softly reaching through their bows, yet so strong that it felt like the mothering arms of the sun.   And we could swear we heard the purr of a cat as we walked down the gravel to the street.  Back slowly to the house we left to find that the screaming had stopped.  Some say they never saw such a grey cat, sitting at the edge of that gravel path.  But sometimes, now, so many years later, when I wake up scared in the middle of the night, I see a small grey cat sitting at the edge of my bed.  I see my older sister grab my hand as he leads us, where he knows we'll be safe.  He leads us, purring, down Grey Cats Path.