Wheeling Gull Isle swega

He loves his mother like he loves God.
She is a beautiful, ethereal being to him. There is a distance there. She’s been largely preoccupied with the littler babies and he was taught to fill that absence with God, and so he did.

Caracal’s absence in the nighttime is different. It feels like a thousand tiny pricks to the hide, some kind of punishment for what he cannot understand, that was never explained to him.

Even the sweet smell of lavender, which he associates with them both now cannot be savored. He creeps over and places one paw on his mother’s arm to get her attention if he was not seen under the sea of flowers.

“Mommy, hab you seen Papa?”