Cat Name: Aridvalley
Gender: she-cat
Rank: Expeditioner
Clan: Cats of the High Mountains
Age: 35 moons
Prompt:
A sunrise may hold a thousand secrets, and the depths of the river a promise that could never be foretold. But your eyes were something more than that, something greater than any natural phenomenon. They sparkled like a fresh winter’s snow, and twinkled like the life above us. Beauty swayed in your tail and tiny pawsteps, embracing curiosity and ambiguity. I watched you so often, as you bounded across the snow, and the way you climbed the rocks so effortlessly.
You were the one that told me it didn’t matter what I said, but what I did. Matter not if I spoke of becoming the greatest, but only if I carried ambition with a heart of steel would it truly matter. My heart ached for your being, the way you carried freedom upon your shoulders. You soared like the prideful eagle, yet you didn’t need wings to accomplish this. You didn’t need anything, except your grace and beautiful mind.
Was I the only one who noticed? No one looked at you as you scaled the rock pile with ease, not a pebble falling. Perhaps it was due to your silence, but I was the only one who saw. As you stood atop the pile, you didn’t look around in boastfulness, no. You looked around, to see what was beyond. Beyond the walls that kept us in, beyond anything any cat would comprehend.
But you couldn’t actually see that far. For the rock pile was only a few tail lengths high, and you were only a kit. So was I. I can’t remember much from when I was young, but the memory of you lay crisper in my mind than anything else ever had. Every memory from my youth had you in it.
She was the one who first wrapped the beautiful greenery around my tail, and insisted I would grow into it. The wrap miraculously never fell, and drifted with me whenever I made my movements across the base. I felt like the ocean, a current, sifting through as I walked. And she was the gull, always searching and wandering, yet never abandoning the sea. Despite how empty I was compared to her, she always fluttered back to me with the trinkets she picked up. Likely, from the nearby beaches. That was what I liked to imagine, anyways.
We had no beaches. We lived in the cold mountains, with a generous amount of snow under paw. I don’t know where she would get these little things, but I found a way to wear some of them, to adorn her jewels of exploration. I liked to imagine where she was, when she wasn’t around me. Sometimes she was in the desert, fighting a sandstorm while finding treasures buried within its landscape. Other times she floated on a chunk of ice down the river, her excited eyes searching the snow sodden banks. But most of the time she wasn’t far away, sifting through rocks and within the tall grasses, just a ways beyond base.
She was allowed to leave, but I was not. She moved through the thorn barrier exit so smoothly, not a single thorn daring to tug at her fur. When I tried to leave, I would be yelled at and scolded. So I sat and waited patiently for her return. This happened on many occasions, and I eventually stopped trying to leave. I was too clumsy to ever get away with what I wanted. She, on the other paw, was as silent as the snow hitting the ground. How she did it was a miracle. A beautiful miracle.
The thing that baffled me most, was that you didn’t speak. I don’t think you were mute, but chose to embrace actions as your language. When you told me things, it was with your eyes. When your beautiful eyes bore into mine, there was no confusion. I knew what you meant. But no one else seemed to understand you. We had a bond no one could explain. When I watched you, other cats watched me. At first, I couldn’t understand why.
When my mother asked me what I was looking at, I replied simply, “My sister, Sasha.”
She looked at me with fearful eyes, “Dear, you have no sister…”
I blinked at her, and could only shake my head. I couldn’t understand what she meant. I had no sister? Of course I did, Sasha has been with me as long as I could remember. I felt offended that she could say such a thing. My little tail puffed upward in defiance, and I did not look at her again that day. Instead, I invested my time in my dear sibling. It seemed she hadn’t heard the conversation between me and mother, or if she had, it didn’t seem she cared. I let my shoulders relax in her presence, and embraced her ability to feel free.
As I grew older, dear Sasha began to grow misty. Her body became more and more transparent by the day. Her eyes grew hollow, and the tips of her paws seemed to no longer exist. I would ask her what was wrong, or if she was okay. Surprisingly, Sasha seemed to not notice her ghastly appearance. Despite the hollowness in her eyes, there was still a faint brightness in them. Each day, her body deteriorated more and more into a misty figure. Still, she never addressed it. Her spirit was brighter than the form of her body.
I became afraid.
I begged her to tell me what was going on. I whimpered and cried, but she avoided the questions. She tried to show me things and lessons, her usual routine- I didn’t listen to a thing. I tried to comprehend what she was saying with the faintest amount of her left. Surprisingly it was still easy to understand, but didn’t lead to any answers. I should have taken time to indulge in her knowledge.
Because on the night of the new moon, she was gone.
-
My memories grow dull after that. I do remember sadness, and no one being able to understand what I was going through. It was only later in my youth that my mother told me about Sasha. She had been too afraid to admit at the time that she knew who Sasha was, because the words that escaped my jaws had shaken her very core with sadness.
Sasha was my stillborn sister.
I often reflect on the experience, and take the time to recall the lessons Sasha taught me. Sometimes I have dreams about her, but whether it’s simply a memory from my conscious self caught in the randomness of dreams or something of actual meaning, I’m unsure. I can’t quite understand why I saw such things as a kit, or why they faded as I aged. My mother says it probably has something to do with my father. What that means, I’m unsure. I never knew my father, and my mother insists on avoiding the conversation. I shouldn’t fantasize about what he’s like.
I do anyway.
Did my father have something similar? Could he see spirits? Sometimes my paws ache in wonder, and my mind wanders so my legs don’t have to. I want to see the world, just as my sister had. I can picture her eyes as clear as day, so beautiful. She had the grace and strength of a mule deer, and anyone could clearly see it in her steady gait as she trotted by.
Unfortunately, I was the only one who could.
Sometimes I wish I could be a kit again, just to experience the wonder of having someone like her. If she’d been alive now, I know she would be my best friend. And sometimes, I still imagine she is. I picture her sitting next to me, or aiding me on a hunt. It’s funny how much someone from my kithood influenced my perspective on the world. I feel lucky to have experienced her presence, even if she wasn’t exactly real. Some insist it was a figment of my imagination, if I trust them enough to tell them. I generally keep it to myself.
She was my favorite memory, favorite friend, favorite sister, from my youth. I still adorn the treasures on my pelt, and keep the smaller trinkets safe within my cave. I will tell her story to my kits and grandkits. They’ll probably think it is only a story, but that's alright. I just hope they’ll trust me enough to continue to pass down her story as well.
For she deserved the world. And this is the least I could do to give it to her.
You were the one that told me it didn’t matter what I said, but what I did. Matter not if I spoke of becoming the greatest, but only if I carried ambition with a heart of steel would it truly matter. My heart ached for your being, the way you carried freedom upon your shoulders. You soared like the prideful eagle, yet you didn’t need wings to accomplish this. You didn’t need anything, except your grace and beautiful mind.
Was I the only one who noticed? No one looked at you as you scaled the rock pile with ease, not a pebble falling. Perhaps it was due to your silence, but I was the only one who saw. As you stood atop the pile, you didn’t look around in boastfulness, no. You looked around, to see what was beyond. Beyond the walls that kept us in, beyond anything any cat would comprehend.
But you couldn’t actually see that far. For the rock pile was only a few tail lengths high, and you were only a kit. So was I. I can’t remember much from when I was young, but the memory of you lay crisper in my mind than anything else ever had. Every memory from my youth had you in it.
She was the one who first wrapped the beautiful greenery around my tail, and insisted I would grow into it. The wrap miraculously never fell, and drifted with me whenever I made my movements across the base. I felt like the ocean, a current, sifting through as I walked. And she was the gull, always searching and wandering, yet never abandoning the sea. Despite how empty I was compared to her, she always fluttered back to me with the trinkets she picked up. Likely, from the nearby beaches. That was what I liked to imagine, anyways.
We had no beaches. We lived in the cold mountains, with a generous amount of snow under paw. I don’t know where she would get these little things, but I found a way to wear some of them, to adorn her jewels of exploration. I liked to imagine where she was, when she wasn’t around me. Sometimes she was in the desert, fighting a sandstorm while finding treasures buried within its landscape. Other times she floated on a chunk of ice down the river, her excited eyes searching the snow sodden banks. But most of the time she wasn’t far away, sifting through rocks and within the tall grasses, just a ways beyond base.
She was allowed to leave, but I was not. She moved through the thorn barrier exit so smoothly, not a single thorn daring to tug at her fur. When I tried to leave, I would be yelled at and scolded. So I sat and waited patiently for her return. This happened on many occasions, and I eventually stopped trying to leave. I was too clumsy to ever get away with what I wanted. She, on the other paw, was as silent as the snow hitting the ground. How she did it was a miracle. A beautiful miracle.
The thing that baffled me most, was that you didn’t speak. I don’t think you were mute, but chose to embrace actions as your language. When you told me things, it was with your eyes. When your beautiful eyes bore into mine, there was no confusion. I knew what you meant. But no one else seemed to understand you. We had a bond no one could explain. When I watched you, other cats watched me. At first, I couldn’t understand why.
When my mother asked me what I was looking at, I replied simply, “My sister, Sasha.”
She looked at me with fearful eyes, “Dear, you have no sister…”
I blinked at her, and could only shake my head. I couldn’t understand what she meant. I had no sister? Of course I did, Sasha has been with me as long as I could remember. I felt offended that she could say such a thing. My little tail puffed upward in defiance, and I did not look at her again that day. Instead, I invested my time in my dear sibling. It seemed she hadn’t heard the conversation between me and mother, or if she had, it didn’t seem she cared. I let my shoulders relax in her presence, and embraced her ability to feel free.
As I grew older, dear Sasha began to grow misty. Her body became more and more transparent by the day. Her eyes grew hollow, and the tips of her paws seemed to no longer exist. I would ask her what was wrong, or if she was okay. Surprisingly, Sasha seemed to not notice her ghastly appearance. Despite the hollowness in her eyes, there was still a faint brightness in them. Each day, her body deteriorated more and more into a misty figure. Still, she never addressed it. Her spirit was brighter than the form of her body.
I became afraid.
I begged her to tell me what was going on. I whimpered and cried, but she avoided the questions. She tried to show me things and lessons, her usual routine- I didn’t listen to a thing. I tried to comprehend what she was saying with the faintest amount of her left. Surprisingly it was still easy to understand, but didn’t lead to any answers. I should have taken time to indulge in her knowledge.
Because on the night of the new moon, she was gone.
-
My memories grow dull after that. I do remember sadness, and no one being able to understand what I was going through. It was only later in my youth that my mother told me about Sasha. She had been too afraid to admit at the time that she knew who Sasha was, because the words that escaped my jaws had shaken her very core with sadness.
Sasha was my stillborn sister.
I often reflect on the experience, and take the time to recall the lessons Sasha taught me. Sometimes I have dreams about her, but whether it’s simply a memory from my conscious self caught in the randomness of dreams or something of actual meaning, I’m unsure. I can’t quite understand why I saw such things as a kit, or why they faded as I aged. My mother says it probably has something to do with my father. What that means, I’m unsure. I never knew my father, and my mother insists on avoiding the conversation. I shouldn’t fantasize about what he’s like.
I do anyway.
Did my father have something similar? Could he see spirits? Sometimes my paws ache in wonder, and my mind wanders so my legs don’t have to. I want to see the world, just as my sister had. I can picture her eyes as clear as day, so beautiful. She had the grace and strength of a mule deer, and anyone could clearly see it in her steady gait as she trotted by.
Unfortunately, I was the only one who could.
Sometimes I wish I could be a kit again, just to experience the wonder of having someone like her. If she’d been alive now, I know she would be my best friend. And sometimes, I still imagine she is. I picture her sitting next to me, or aiding me on a hunt. It’s funny how much someone from my kithood influenced my perspective on the world. I feel lucky to have experienced her presence, even if she wasn’t exactly real. Some insist it was a figment of my imagination, if I trust them enough to tell them. I generally keep it to myself.
She was my favorite memory, favorite friend, favorite sister, from my youth. I still adorn the treasures on my pelt, and keep the smaller trinkets safe within my cave. I will tell her story to my kits and grandkits. They’ll probably think it is only a story, but that's alright. I just hope they’ll trust me enough to continue to pass down her story as well.
For she deserved the world. And this is the least I could do to give it to her.
