I was born with the scent of salt in my mouth. The smell was like the seagulls’ cries hawking overhead. Squawking, grating, urging…and impossible to catch. These are my very first memories from before my eyes opened. Salt. Squawks. And then, very fuzzily, I remember warmth.

I remember my littermates. Their bodies were pressed so close to me that moving was a fight. All around me was softness, warmth, and the smell of my family. After that, I should be able to remember milk, of course, sweet and life-giving and wonderful. But I don’t. I only remember the warmth of my mother as I suckled. 

Humans call the place I was born a beach. The sand was crumbly and would stick in between my toes. I didn’t like it very much, but I loved the sea. The guttural whooshing and shushing of the waves seemed to me like the Ocean’s purring.

Suns and moons passed. I would say it was an ideal kittenhood, but it wasn’t. It was hungry. And wet. And the gulls had it out for us, no matter if they claimed otherwise. The worst of it was the cold. The winter chill settled into our bones. My parents took to hoarding us against their bodies. Without them, I shivered. But with them, I was warm. Warmth was life. It was love.

A human found us. Called others. They scooped us up like we were fish. My father escaped, but my mother refused. She wouldn’t leave us. She would not stop hissing. And yowling. And fighting. I learned to fight from her.

The humans took us to more cages, whose bars were cold, and whose floors were warm. We kittens shared one cage, and my mother another. We were allowed to play on the floor together often. As soon as that happened, my mother would draw us to her, licking us and flattening our fur against our bodies. Suns and moons passed again, a great deal of them. Eventually, people came to take us. Humans foolishly believe they are the ones doing the choosing. This is untrue. The older cats whisper tips to the newer ones. Soon, everyone learns to prick their ears up at the humans you like. To widen your eyes. To purr, show your belly. And for the real cincher  – to press your paw to the glass against their finger. Humans are easy to adopt.

I missed my siblings after they’d adopted humans. My mother missed them terribly. Even after I stopped needing her milk, we would lie cuddled together as if we could make up for their warmth.

One day one of the humans left the front door open while we were playing on the floor. My mother fled. She looked at me before she did so, and meowed once to tell me to come. But I couldn’t remember the outside like she did. I remembered the cold, and gulls, and hunger. So, I stayed. That night I heard two cats meowing outside the wall. I like to think she found my father, and that they were saying goodbye to me.

A few suns and moons passed. A young human noticed me. He would pet me, and I would climb up his shoulders like a scarf.  He had long dreadlocks, and though I wanted to bat at them, I didn’t. I did not want to hurt him. Instead, I would wriggle underneath his shirt and listen to his breathing and heartbeat. They were the closest thing to my mother’s purr, to the sea’s purr. Humans were warm too; this surprised me. For a while I wasn’t as lonely. But then he left too, to go hunt another job. It was then that I realized the truth of the world’s claws.

So many suns and moons passed that I stopped counting them. The purring of the sea mocked me. So did the squawking of those self-satisfied gulls. Even the other cats mocked me, playing and frolicking. Irritating idiots. I started a few fights with them. Did my mother see us as that when we were young? Was my belief in the happiness of the Ocean as annoying as these kittens’ nativity? If it was, she never let on.

One day I saw a family of two big humans and two little ones. I noticed them because they held each other. They linked paws, nuzzled against shoulders, kissed each other. It reminded me of my family so much that it felt like a wallop. They came over and it was laughably simple. I pressed my paw to the glass at the same time the largest pressed his finger to it. They all fell in love with me instantly. Smart humans.

They lived in a place of green trees and deep snow. There was no more scent of salt. I liked it well enough. But at night I would dream of home. As suns and moons and seasons and even season cycles passed, I settled in. I had a favorite human. She was the youngest human, a girl. She would sneak me treats and play with me. I slept in her bed. When she would leave and come back, I would lick her all over like my mother did to me. I would hiss and growl when her brother would yell at her, like my mother did for me. I cuddled and listened to her breathing and purrs, as I had for the other human.

 I know one day my human will be gone too. Or I will be. We will only be left with ghosts of the affection between us. No…not ghosts. Memories. Scents. Like what is left of my parents, littermates, and that first human. I will ensure they are good memories, good scents. I cuddle against her so she will learn warmth. I purr into her ear so she will remember the sound of the ocean.

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Cecilia Combs is a young author from South Jersey. She recently graduated from Rowan University with double majors in Creative Writing and Writing Arts, and a minor in English. She has been published in various publications, including Avant literary magazine, Ophiuchus, and will soon be published in Flower Mouth Press! She also works with Calliope: A Poetry Podcast and Art-emis, a literary magazine.