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.