November 16th

He didn’t let me ride in the ambulance, said there wasn’t enough room.

They took her away, unaware they let a wolf sit by her side.

I am alone.

November 18th

It was black out when he stumbled through the doorway; his air was acidic with a hint of cinnamon.

I squeezed my body behind the hamper in our laundry room, the shelf above my head, pressed down on me. My head hurts.

I didn’t sleep that night.

November 23rd

She still wasn’t back yet. I hug her pink, knit sweatshirt—the one I use as a pillow. The faint scent of apples and honey, still clinging to the fibers.

I miss her.

November 30th

My stomach pinches at the sides and my ribs faintly stick out from under my shirt.

I went to the fridge at a time I should not have.

The wolf is still awake.

December 1st

My body is a splintered mess. My body parts that hid beneath my clothes groan without me moving them.

I am on the ground, wishing I could adjust myself to lay on my back. The hardwood floor was unyielding, making my shoulder sting.

My stomach growls.

December 7th - Morning

The wolf calls to me.

I don’t trust his words. But he says “She’s well enough now. We can go see her.”

I still don’t trust him, but her pink sweatshirt smells damp and musty.

Apples and honey are worth it, I say to myself.

My body creaks like an old sofa, I stand for the first time without crying.

December 7th - Afternoon

The woman in the bed was pale. I didn’t recognize her until I noticed the red glasses on the bed’s side table.

My mother looked older.

I’m glad she didn’t have her glasses on. I fear she might notice my limp, the bruises.

I make it to her side.

She placed her hand on my cheek and jawline. I told myself not to wince, even though her touch was fire on my skin.

Her thumb brushes a tear from my eye, I think she thought all my tears were for her; I wish they were.

I struggle to get the pink sweatshirt out of the plastic bag I have with me, and lay it over her lap.

The wolf towered behind me, eyes, unblinking.

Apples and honey, I told myself.

Mom, please get better soon.