Like Cats

by Caroline Bock

We raised ourselves. We had Pop, of course. He stayed. We had our mother. We didn’t lose her, though that’s what people said. We knew exactly where she was—the State Hospital. We sometimes visited. All this was a long time ago, and we should get over it, that’s what one brother says. The other says, I don’t remember a thing, in such a way that we know he remembers everything. Our sister used to cry about it, claw the furniture, tear up papers. Our brothers chased one another’s tails, bit each other, and collapsed into dapples of sun. We ate from the same bowl. We lapped up gallons of milk. We were well-fed. Pop wanted it to be us against the world. He didn’t ask for help; no one offered it anyway. We climbed trees. Made our own way down. Were rowdy on nights Pop was out tomcatting. We weren’t rich or poor; we were always struggling. We didn’t talk about her when we weren’t visiting, and were mum after each outing, mewing against one another in the basket of the backseat. And when Pop announced, "No more visits," we didn’t see her for a long time. One after another, over the years, we all scattered. Prowled into the night. No longer curled up against one another. No longer looked for spots of sun. We slept with others; we slept with anyone who would be warm next to us. We slept with them all. We raised ourselves.

Caroline Bock is the author of THE OTHER BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE, forthcoming from Regal House Publishing in June 2026. She's also the author of CARRY HER HOME (short story collection) and the young adult novels LIE and BEFORE MY EYES (St. Martin's Press). Her micros have recently appeared in The Hopkins Review and SmokeLong Quarterly. She's the co-president/prose editor at the Washington Writers' Publishing House, based in Washington, DC.