I Cry For the Wolf

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Abstract

e wolf is really here this time. The boy told me. I can feel it in my bones!” They smile at my joyful optimism and believe me wholeheartedly. Why wouldn’t they? They are unaware of how many times that mischievous child has tricked me before.We run over the hilltop, clasping hands, only to discover that it wasn’t a wolf. It was never a wolf. My disbelief quickly festers into sadness, then grief. The evidence is clear! Aren’t those wolf tracks in the mud? What about those forlorn howls, calling to me in the night?But wolves aren’t the only creatures roaming these forsaken woods. The red fox carefully mimics, crudely replicating the wolf’s strong paws. Its tiny red mouth recreates the wolf’s strong bay, opening wide as it calls into the black night. Its impersonation isn’t malevolent — it’s the only way it knows how to exist. And yet, I’m angry. The fox has every right to be here. But, I wanted the wolf. Why does it elude me?So, I wallow. I wallow inside myself, sitting quietly in the dark place inside my chest. Am I too weak for the wolf, too frail, t

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oo small? Does the wolf sense my fear? Does it eye me from the shadows, carefully analyzing my past and present, before finding me undeserving of its powerful soul?Eventually, these thoughts disperse. The dark place inside turns from stone to glass. I, like the chick, use my beak to peck and peck until I’m tired from the effort. I want to give up. But I don’t. Finally, I burst through the shelly membrane, slivers of hope cutting into my arms and legs.I emerge, bleeding but reformed, a cautious dreamer with newfound hope. The magic of your possible existence propels me forward into the uncertain future. I envision your eyes as lighthouses, calling me to your distant shores. I envision your tiny yet formidable paws, which will spin my heart into strings of glistening gold.While the journey has been perilous and many cycles have come and gone without me hearing your moon-ward cry, I know that one day soon we will meet. As fear and hope coalesce inside my chest, I anxiously wonder if the boy who cried wolf will speak truth this time.</article></body>

Will I ever hear it’s cry?

I’m sitting alone in this cold room, wondering if it’s because of me. My abdomen cramps; my mind races. Each new bodily sensation sends me through phases of elation and distress, wondering if it’s a sign from God or a boy gleefully crying wolf.

I’m cautiously excited — I want the wolf. I need the wolf. You are brave and fierce. You make me excited but also afraid. I’m anxious at the idea of you. But, it’s the best kind of anxiety, comparable to the jittery joy of waking up on Christmas morning, cautiously hopeful that large, tiptoed feet secretly snuck my greatest desire under the glittering tree.

So, I run to tell the others, “The wolf is really here this time. The boy told me. I can feel it in my bones!” They smile at my joyful optimism and believe me wholeheartedly. Why wouldn’t they? They are unaware of how many times that mischievous child has tricked me before.

We run over the hilltop, clasping hands, only to discover that it wasn’t a wolf. It was never a wolf. My disbelief quickly festers into sadness, then grief. The evidence is clear! Aren’t those wolf tracks in the mud? What about those forlorn howls, calling to me in the night?

But wolves aren’t the only creatures roaming these forsaken woods. The red fox carefully mimics, crudely replicating the wolf’s strong paws. Its tiny red mouth recreates the wolf’s strong bay, opening wide as it calls into the black night. Its impersonation isn’t malevolent — it’s the only way it knows how to exist. And yet, I’m angry. The fox has every right to be here. But, I wanted the wolf. Why does it elude me?

So, I wallow. I wallow inside myself, sitting quietly in the dark place inside my chest. Am I too weak for the wolf, too frail, too small? Does the wolf sense my fear? Does it eye me from the shadows, carefully analyzing my past and present, before finding me undeserving of its powerful soul?

Eventually, these thoughts disperse. The dark place inside turns from stone to glass. I, like the chick, use my beak to peck and peck until I’m tired from the effort. I want to give up. But I don’t. Finally, I burst through the shelly membrane, slivers of hope cutting into my arms and legs.

I emerge, bleeding but reformed, a cautious dreamer with newfound hope. The magic of your possible existence propels me forward into the uncertain future. I envision your eyes as lighthouses, calling me to your distant shores. I envision your tiny yet formidable paws, which will spin my heart into strings of glistening gold.

While the journey has been perilous and many cycles have come and gone without me hearing your moon-ward cry, I know that one day soon we will meet. As fear and hope coalesce inside my chest, I anxiously wonder if the boy who cried wolf will speak truth this time.