Tell The Wolves I'm Home

by Carol Rifka Brunt

I felt numb. Like cold, hard concrete had been poured into all the little spaces in my head where I’d been hiding maybes.

“Don’t you know? That’s the secret. If you always make sure you’re exactly the person you hoped to be, if you always make sure you know only the very best people, then you won’t care if you die tomorrow.” “That doesn’t make any sense. If you were so happy, then you’d want to stay alive, wouldn’t you? You’d want to be alive forever, so you could keep being happy.” I reached over and tapped my ash into a pretty pottery dish that Toby was using for an ashtray. “No, no. It’s the most unhappy people who want to stay alive, because they think they haven’t done everything they want to do. They think they haven’t had enough time. They feel like they’ve been shortchanged.”

All my life I’ve listened to Mom. Opportunities. Chances. And I don’t want to be ungrateful. I don’t want to miss out, but sometimes I lie in my bed and I look around at my room and I can’t believe I’m not supposed to be a kid anymore. What about that opportunity? Where’s the second chance for that?”