Tell The Wolves I'm Home

by Carol Rifka Brunt

Going into the woods by yourself is the best way to pretend you’re in another time. It’s a thing you can only do alone. If there’s somebody else with you, it’s too easy to remember where you really are.

I stared out the car window and understood that I was in a place where nobody knew my heart even a little bit.

I’m okay with one or two people, but more than that and I turn into a naked mole rat. That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth.

The worst thing is the stupid hopefulness.

Who would tell me the truth, the real story that was under what everybody else could see?

I felt like I had proof that not all days are the same length, not all time has the same weight.

the past, present, and future are just one thing.

Home is home is home.