The Wild Thing Was

By Dreena Collins

Furniture was a gauntlet to you. Chair backs were monkey bars.

During story-time, you rattled the library shelves, then stood nose-to-nose with the librarian, pawing the pages she turned.

You were bold. Confident. I was red-faced.

Now, you do not climb or run. Teachers call you ‘mature,’ and on the way home from school, we discuss the wasp-nest of anxiety that forms a home in your belly too often.

So, I recount stories of tantrums with fondness and glee. Proud of what you have become, yes— but a little bit wistful, just a little sad, for the boy you were before.