Of the Wild

by Elizabeth Wambheim

Birds found their southern nest, sea turtles found the sea, and Aeris found the scared and the small.

“They need,” he went on, “someone who knows what it is to be lost and found.”

“Family,” he began, sharply aware, even with his eyes closed, of William's drawn attention, “is the garden that grows you before you realize you are growing. It is the dirt and the sun and the air, and you take root where you can, even if all you have is stone and shade. ​“And if that first planting does not take, we try again.” He blinked, found William's eyes on him, their green and brown as dark as deep water in the gathering night. “In a different garden, we try again.”

“I want you to wear what shape gives you joy and comfort—and if you are so now, how could I think you ought to change?”

If he could not hold onto all this forever, he could at least keep the memory, could fold it like a pressed flower into the deepest pocket of his thoughts.

This fire was not for him, this light was not for him, but he wanted—so dearly wanted—to stay close, to stay warm, to dissolve into someone else's care and kindness.