Once There Were Wolves

by Charlotte McConaghy

Is that the way of all love? That it should carry the risk of death?

“I’ll alert the villagers to lock up their wives and daughters. The big bad wolves are coming.” I meet his eyes. “If I were you I’d be more worried about the wives and daughters going out to run with the wolves.”

“If you truly think wolves are the blood spillers, then you’re blind,” I say. “We do that. We are the people killers, the children killers. We’re the monsters.”

“I’ve seen wolves change the course of rivers.”

There are languages without words and violence is one of them.

A man’s anger, his violence, is no one’s responsibility but his own.

When I turned thirty, almost to the day, I started thinking about a child. Something in my body said Now, now, this is why you’re here, this is the meaning. An urgent clock I hadn’t believed was real until I felt its chiming. The cells of me wanted to nurture, they wanted to love and protect.

“I didn’t come here because I was frightened, that’s not what I meant. I can look after myself.” I don’t know if this is true, actually, in fact I strongly suspect it’s not, but he says, “I know you can,” and sounds like he means it.

There has to be a way to heal, and if she has not the will for it, then I will be strong enough and sure enough for her. She can have my soul in place of hers, if she needs it.