Endings
I was once a little girl, which is to say I was once a hungry, wild little thing, which is to say I was once a wolf. I was also the daughter of a man, which is to say I was the daughter of something made of matchsticks, which is to say…well. Let’s not talk about that. Summers were both the best times and the worst times for these reasons. Out of school and free to wander in the woods until it started to get dark, I loved the summer. I did not love going home after, but like I said, let’s not talk about that.
It was a hot summer day, I can’t remember which one, but it seemed to me to be the longest, which is to say it was sweltering, which is to say the sweat stuck my hair to my face and the shirt to my back but I was a wild little thing and didn’t care. It was muddy in the woods but I had my play shoes on and was partial to covering them in dirt and grime and grass-stains. It was a badge of honor among some of my classmates when we returned to school—who was the wildest, who was the bravest, who was the scariest when they showed their teeth. I was always the wildest.
Some of the other little girls were not wolves, they liked to pretend to be grown-ups, but they were still hungry, and were sometimes scarier than me when they snarled. They thought my play shoes were ugly, which is how I knew they were wrong and I was right. I fit in better with the other girls who were also wolves, who also liked to play in the woods until sunset, and we always made constellations out of our bug bites on the first day of school.
On this day I was a witch who needed ingredients for her potions, and I carried a plastic sand bucket with me to the woods behind my house to fetch them. I needed eye of newt and toe of frog, or at least that is what I’d heard I needed on the television, and I was determined to find them. If not, leaves and grass and twigs would just have to do. There was magic in the trees, of that much I was certain.
What I found instead was a dead thing. It was the first time I’d ever seen a dead thing. It was long, long dead, which is to say it smelled, which is to say I had to pull my shirt over my nose to get close to it, and I did, get close to it. It didn’t scare me like I thought it might when I first saw the little rib cage poking out of the pile of fur. I could hear the buzz of the flies that crawled all over it, and I didn’t like that. Even as a wolf I did not like bugs that much, but the dead thing was interesting. What magic might come from a dead thing so dead you can’t even tell what it once was? I wondered if it would turn me into something unrecognizable too, but knew better than to touch it, I didn’t want that smell on my hands. I stared at the dead thing for who knows how long, at least until the sun started to set and I had to run home, grabbing ingredients as I went.
In the end I made a hasty potion out of leaves and grass and water and sipped it even though it was gross, hoping it would turn me invisible. I found out that it didn’t work when my mom caught me in the backyard cupping my hands in the dirty water and raising them to my mouth. She yelled at me and made me go throw up. I was too young to understand why it wouldn’t work, but I was old enough to know to be embarrassed being caught doing something so silly. Later, when I asked her about the dead thing, Mom said it was probably a rabbit or a raccoon, and it was good that I didn’t touch it. She said that all good things end, even in summer.
Dad came home and my mom and I never spoke of it again.
It was a hot summer day, I can’t remember which one, but it seemed to me to be the longest, which is to say it was sweltering, which is to say the sweat stuck my hair to my face and the shirt to my back but I was a wild little thing and didn’t care. It was muddy in the woods but I had my play shoes on and was partial to covering them in dirt and grime and grass-stains. It was a badge of honor among some of my classmates when we returned to school—who was the wildest, who was the bravest, who was the scariest when they showed their teeth. I was always the wildest.
Some of the other little girls were not wolves, they liked to pretend to be grown-ups, but they were still hungry, and were sometimes scarier than me when they snarled. They thought my play shoes were ugly, which is how I knew they were wrong and I was right. I fit in better with the other girls who were also wolves, who also liked to play in the woods until sunset, and we always made constellations out of our bug bites on the first day of school.
On this day I was a witch who needed ingredients for her potions, and I carried a plastic sand bucket with me to the woods behind my house to fetch them. I needed eye of newt and toe of frog, or at least that is what I’d heard I needed on the television, and I was determined to find them. If not, leaves and grass and twigs would just have to do. There was magic in the trees, of that much I was certain.
What I found instead was a dead thing. It was the first time I’d ever seen a dead thing. It was long, long dead, which is to say it smelled, which is to say I had to pull my shirt over my nose to get close to it, and I did, get close to it. It didn’t scare me like I thought it might when I first saw the little rib cage poking out of the pile of fur. I could hear the buzz of the flies that crawled all over it, and I didn’t like that. Even as a wolf I did not like bugs that much, but the dead thing was interesting. What magic might come from a dead thing so dead you can’t even tell what it once was? I wondered if it would turn me into something unrecognizable too, but knew better than to touch it, I didn’t want that smell on my hands. I stared at the dead thing for who knows how long, at least until the sun started to set and I had to run home, grabbing ingredients as I went.
In the end I made a hasty potion out of leaves and grass and water and sipped it even though it was gross, hoping it would turn me invisible. I found out that it didn’t work when my mom caught me in the backyard cupping my hands in the dirty water and raising them to my mouth. She yelled at me and made me go throw up. I was too young to understand why it wouldn’t work, but I was old enough to know to be embarrassed being caught doing something so silly. Later, when I asked her about the dead thing, Mom said it was probably a rabbit or a raccoon, and it was good that I didn’t touch it. She said that all good things end, even in summer.
Dad came home and my mom and I never spoke of it again.
Meagan Patrick lives and writes in Memphis, TN, where she works with her service-dog-in-training and closest confidante, Jyn. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in Mineral, Littledeathlit and Perhappened Magazine. She has a love/hate relationship with summer. She can be found on twitter @rosenplant_z.