Across the kitchen’s smudged timber, twin tomcats with limestone irises sit and wait for a speck of salmon to fall from my Mother’s cutting board. One day they’ll snag a scrap. If these floorboards could think they would know when to warn my Mother of their swift actions. Noses prodded up like steam, they could sense that today was their day. They traced the lemon-soaked salmon to the sunflower-slick pan. They stalked the smell of low-cholesterol cooking. They hung on my Mother’s, “stay back”, tone. But they never backed away, they sat there, soaking up the sight of her setting down the plates.