I see, and suddenly nothing is enough.
I see the light sink into my senses as slowly, I lean away from slumber. With the light comes an awareness: first, of the gaping mouth near the top of our little sanctuary. Sometimes, my mother slips through this maw, disappearing and then returning in hazy journeys I am too befuddled to track. Several times we try to follow her, but always she chastises us with a flick of the tail or a gentle cuff of the paw. Eventually, when we accept it is forbidden, we do not approach the light.
Here, I learn of a second thing: shape and form and balance. I grow aware of my own stubby paws, and the prickling ears of my tumbling siblings. We learn that we can stumble if we do not move our paws in time, and that it hurts to bump into the walls when we don't quite manage a turn. We learn that while rocks won't move beneath us, there are other things that will: we begin to press and paw against each other, investigating as kits will do with other living creatures.
Our mother has blossoming golden fur, the colour of the light streaming in when she enters and leaves the den. I like to think she goes to bathe here; for with each return, she is more radiant than ever before. My two siblings are twin shades of minty grey, mottled in places and sleek in some. When I glance down at my own paws, I can see that they are paler.
