He knows Peter’s theme by heart
and hums it to himself when
he builds cardboard skyscrapers or
weaves webs of yarn round doorknobs
and kitchen drawer handles.
The melody of the strings
summons plaid school satchels
abandoned for tree climbing,
romping through bright fields
immune to the danger
of plain old grey wolves or
the colorful fairytale ones
thinly tucked into bonnets and aprons
lurking in doorways or
tumbling down red brick fireplaces
blazing with flames.
Sitting side by side
on the red damask sofa
he sucks his calloused thumb
and caresses his threadbare doggie
keeping time with the music,
listening beyond the crackle and burp,
as the needle steers its way across
the grooves in the ancient black vinyl
past the slinking of the clarinet cat
and the flute bird fluttering.
When the mellow brass of the French horns
signal the presence
of the skulking saw-toothed wolf
we see his shadowy paw prints
in the snowy woods,
and the thumb sucking slows
now more distraction
than comfort.
Even though we know it’s just a trick
and that she is resting safely
in the hollow of the tree
we mourn Sonja swallowed whole
into the dark
of the wolf’s belly.
And even though we know it’s a happy ending
for Peter who traps that wolf with a rope
wound round its bushy tail
when I tuck him into bed that night
into the darkness he asks
a simmering not so simple question–
but the wolf isn’t real,
right?
Literary Mama, January/February 2022
Elise Chadwick 