My stomach grumbles
I wake up at 5:15 am
15 minutes later than I normally do
And hungrier than I’ve ever been
All I hear are the soft thumps of heartbeats
The slow patterns of breathing
The dimness and stillness
Which only exist between dusk and dawn
Which I can only experience
When the owls and I are the only ones awake
At this time I am alone
But I don’t feel lonely
The darkness is blinding
The silence is deafening
And yet, I feel serene and at ease
Most of my life is tranquil
I am living the perfect life, after all
I tiptoe to my mother’s room
She’s still asleep
I watch as her chest rises and falls
Like waves swashing softly on the sea shore
Wait?
Why am I saying this?
I’ve never even been to the beach
I’ve never seen the waves
I’ve never felt the sea breeze
Am I enslaved?
No… I couldn’t be…
I gracefully leap onto her bed
And lay smack in the middle of her pillow
Filling up the space right next to her head
I start to purr
Trying to match my breathing pattern with hers
I fail miserably
Her breaths are always so much longer than mine
Except every now and then
When she comes home from school
Lays on the bed meant solely for sleeping
Curls up into a ball just like the ones she purchased for me to play with
And starts to break down
The bed intended for sleeping transforms into a bay
Her woes engulf her like a wave
Trapping her under the surface
She thinks that her sorrows are kept quiet
Like secrets silently shown in the privacy of a secluded beach
But I’m always watching
Observing how her heartbeat starts racing
Never allowing her breath to catch up
It is during these episodes
That my breaths are miraculously longer than hers
But right now she is asleep
And her breathing is still deeper than mine
I stand up on her pillow
And nudge my small head underneath her arm
She stirs
Groans at me for waking her up “so early”
And yet this time I was actually late
15 minutes later than I usually wake her up
She rolls on her side
Picks me up
Walks to the door
And locks me outside of her room
I stare at the wooden barricade that separates us
Thin, but impenetrable
Just like the surface tension of the water she submerges herself in
Which keeps me out
Keeps me away
I’ve always been afraid of bodies of water, anyway
My mother eventually awakens
7:30 on the dot
She races past me in haste
Fills my bowl with some food
Says a short
“I’ll see you later, Mora.”
Before shutting another door
Leaving for a world that scars her like a war
Those seven hours always feel so long
The pigeons perched on the patio coo
The sounds from the neighbor’s construction booms
I am surrounded by sounds
And yet the only human whose sound I seek
The only person I would rescue in a heartbeat
Is absent
The elevator hums
Keys jingle
They scratch the wood of the front door
She walks through the entry
Her head hung low
She rushes past me, back to her room
Back to the ocean she keeps drowning herself in
She shuts her door once again
But forgets to lock it this time
I slip through
Sit on the edge of her bed
And purr
All I can do is keep purring
Keep hoping that my precious, pristine purrs
Will provide her with the same peace that I partake in
Maybe then she, too, will live a perfect life