Tell The Wolves I'm Home

by Carol Rifka Brunt

“That’s what I want for you,” he said. “I want you to know only the very best people.” That’s when I broke down and cried, because I already knew the very best people. Finn was the very best person I knew.

I felt like I had proof that not all days are the same length, not all time has the same weight. Proof that there are worlds and worlds and worlds on top of worlds, if you want them to be there.

“Being a romantic means you always see what’s beautiful. What’s good. You don’t want to see the gritty truth of things. You believe everything will turn out right.”

It would be romantic. Not lovey-dovey romantic, the other kind. It would be the best I could possibly do. I am average at English and I am average at math, but I was not going to be average at looking after Toby. This time I was going to get it exactly right.

Toby was right. Finn was my first love. But Toby, he was my second. And the sadness in that stretched like a thin cold river down the length of my whole life.

There are dark black buttons tattooed on my heart. I’ll carry them for the rest of my days.