I went no farther, that first night. But I came out again,
inevitably. I played my way farther out into the world,
vast cavern aboveground, cautiously darting from tree to
tree challenging the terrible forces of night on tiptoe. At
dawn I fled back.
I lived those years, as do all young things, in a spell.
Like a puppy nipping, playfully growling preparing for
battle with wolves. At times the spell would be broken
suddenly: on shelves or in hallways of my mother's cave,
large old shapes with smouldering eyes sat watching me.
A continuous grumble came out of their mouths; their
backs were humped. Then little by little it dawned on me
that the eyes that seemed to bore into my body were in fact
gazing through it, wearily indifferent to my slight ob-
struction of the darkness. Of all the creatures I knew, in
those days, only my mother really looked at me.-Stared
at me as if to consume me, like a troll. She loved me, in
some mysterious sense I understood without her speaking
it. I was her creation. We were one thing, like the wall
and the rock growing out from it.-Or so I ardently,
desperately affirmed. When her strange eyes burned into
me, it did not seem quite sure. I was intensely aware of
where I sat, the volume of darkness I displaced, the shiny-
blackness of my fur against the dimly lit cave walls. I was a presence, a being, and my mother was my world.
But as I grew older, the spell began to weaken. The world outside beckoned me with its mysterious allure, and I couldn't resist its pull. I ventured out further, exploring the vastness of the forest with cautious steps. Every night, I pushed my boundaries, challenging the unknown with a mixture of excitement and fear.
Yet, with the first rays of dawn, I always found myself retreating back to the safety of my mother's cave. The outside world was a perilous place, and I wasn't yet ready to face it alone. The warmth of my mother's gaze, the reassuring grumble of her voice, kept me grounded and protected.
But there were moments when the spell was shattered, when my mother's presence seemed different. In those moments, I would catch glimpses of her old, tired eyes staring right through me. Her large, hunched figure seemed distant, as if she were lost in her own thoughts. It was as if she saw me, but didn't really see me.
Yet, despite these unsettling experiences, I knew deep down that my mother loved me. It was an unspoken love, a connection that went beyond words. I was her creation, her flesh and blood. We were intertwined, like the rock growing out from the cave walls. Or at least, that's what I desperately wanted to believe.
In those moments when her gaze burned into me, doubt crept in. Was I really a part of her? Was I truly loved? I could feel the weight of my existence, the impact I had on the darkness of the cave. But there was always a shadow of uncertainty lurking behind my conviction.
No matter what, though, I held on to the belief that my mother's love was real. It was a love that didn't need to be spoken or proven. It was a love that simply was. And even in the moments when her gaze wavered, I clung to that love, relying on it to navigate the world beyond the cave.
smooth span of packed dirt between us, and the shocking
separateness from me in my mama's eyes. I would feel,
all at once, alone and ugly, almost-as if I'd dirtied my-
self-obscene. The cavern river rumbled far below us.
Being young, unable to face these things, I would bawl
and hurl myself at my mother and she would reach out
her claws and seize me, though I could see I alarmed
her (I had teeth like a saw), and she would smash me to
her fat, limp breast as if to make me a part of her flesh
again. After that, comforted, I would gradually ease back
out into my games. Crafty-eyed, wicked as an elderly
wolf, I would scheme with or stalk my imaginary friends,
projecting the self I meant to become into every dark
corner of the cave and the woods above.
As I grew older, the moments of doubt and unease became more frequent. The smooth span of packed dirt between my mother and me, the gap that seemed to widen with each passing day, became a painful reminder of our separateness. In her eyes, I could see a distant look, a disconnection that left me feeling alone and unworthy.
The sound of the cavern river, always rumbling in the depths below, seemed to echo my inner turmoil. I couldn't bear to face the truth of our situation, so I would burst into tears and fling myself at my mother, seeking solace in her familiar embrace. I knew that I frightened her with my sharp teeth and wildness, but she would still reach out her claws and pull me close, pressing me against her soft, flabby breast as if to merge us back together.
And for a fleeting moment, that closeness would comfort me. I would feel a sense of belonging, of being a part of something larger than myself. But as the ache of separation resurfaced, I would gradually retreat back into my imaginary world.
In my games and fantasies, I became crafty-eyed and wicked, like an elderly wolf. I would scheme with my imaginary friends, projecting the person I wanted to become into every dark corner of the cave and the woods above. In those moments, I could temporarily escape the reality of my existence, living vicariously through the version of myself I longed to be.
But deep down, I knew that these games were just a temporary refuge. The questions lingered in the back of my mind, the doubts about my place in the world and my relationship with my mother. I yearned for a love that didn't require me to prove myself or fight for her attention, but I wasn't sure if that kind of love truly existed. And so, I continued to seek solace in my imaginary world, hoping to find the answers I longed for.