I marvel at how the old homestead has changed for me. I couldn’t wait to get away when I was in my teens and twenties, and dreaded every forced return. Now that I am older, and there’s a baby niece knocking about, and my parents have mellowed out, mossed over, settled down, the place is a refuge.
When a relationship ended, it was the first placed I went. I knew that no one would ask questions and would instead serve me rhubarb and strawberry pie. And a ten month old baby will only smile at you, and wish to be picked up.
On Saturday and Sunday I spent several hours lying on a bed in my old bedroom, listening to leaves and crickets. Late at night, with both windows open, the sounds of distant thunder put me to bed and the gloating of brush wolves woke me up again, twice. At one point, I got out of bed and pressed my ear to the screen. The yipping placed them only a few yards up the road. The sound was comforting.
I hear a wolf call out into the night and I feel an affinity. Not for the wolf that is making itself known. Whenever you hear a wolf call in the night, know that there is always a second wolf, walking silently in the deepest part of the dark. It is that second wolf, the always-silent wolf, that I have always related to.