Keeping Tigers

My mother took to keeping tigers. The backyard became the enclosure. I couldn’t sleep in my own bed. Too many eyes, tiger eyes, looked at me like I didn’t belong. I went to my mother’s bedroom. It was empty. She was outside sleeping among the tigers. She lay on her back looking up at tiger bellies as though they were stars. I told her I was scared. She said, “It’s as natural as anything that could’ve fallen, ripe, from the trees.” But where are our trees? I thought. I pressed against the enclosure. I could hear the tigers breathing. I saw their eyes weren’t so wide as I expected. I saw small distances, promises not to go any farther. My mother warned not to get too close. “You can’t touch everything you want,” she said.
My father made a surprise visit. I screamed, “I missed you!” He screamed, “Tigers!” He carried me to the attic. This time it was my mother who left us. The tigers got loose too. They paced the sidewalks, yawning. I said, “What are we going to do?” My father said, “Wait for animal control.” That’s when SWAT appeared. There wasn’t time for tranquilizers, the assumption being anything able to escape must have been willing to use its teeth.
I had always thought tiger stripes looked like cracked glass. Now as carcasses splayed in the streets, they looked like lines on a map. I bent to touch them. I traced all directions. I traced and hoped one of them, at least, would lead me home.