his christmas kitten is about four months old, now. he is tucked neatly inside the crush royal-blue throw that covers her lap. he is kneading, there. she is busy and does not watch, until she hears a familiar sound, clicking. the sucking of a small mouth, tugging and the small tongue ticking, quietly. she knows that the blanket will be wet with the spit, but she does not make him stop. she, here, thinks of when he was handed to her through a gray door in Richardson.
she had not, until now, coined and acknowledged that moment as one that was devotedly and forever connected to the moment just prior to it–yes, the moment, when the kitten was taken from his mother. she imagines it happened quietly, quickly, and with no ceremony, surely. [what a thing! to have no momentous goodbye—is this okay? she thinks is this okay?] the cat’s eyes are closed, his mouth tugs, the void of that first motherless moment pulls, too, and it has suddenly become, so much. she feels the unmistakable surge in her own breast [a bolt!] and draws her air in sharply.
sometimes, when she puts him to sleep, her son will click his tongue after he drifts off, making small sucking sounds next to her. he has not eaten from her body in 7 years now, but motherhood is pervasive she thinks, oh, just wild, boundless and voracious. her breasts cry in ache, unanswered. she watches his cheeks tug gently in the dark.