“You’re like a cat; you always land on your feet.” My mother raises her compliment at me without realizing the connotations it brings to mind.

Why must I be a cat?

Doesn’t a cat have nine lives?

And if so, how many have I already lived and died through? How many do I have left?

Where am I landing on my feet from?

Could it be I’ve landed on my feet after being thrown by the very person handing me the compliment?

I suppose it was a deep fall from her window.

The one in which I landed right on my feet.