The Wolves

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The following extract was written during lockdown, in 2020. It’s a recollection of my earliest memories. I have tweaked it for clarity and grammar purposes. 

There was a large, dark oak dresser, with a dark coloured carrycot on top. Via a ledge on the dresser, I stepped and raised myself, and took a peek inside. I saw a baby wearing a blue vest and a white terry-towel nappy. I did not think much of this. For a long time, this baby remained ‘little’ in my eyes, at the age of two, three, and even throughout most of primary school. During those early years, there was distance and hostility between us. At the slightest instance, I’d hit her. I’d hit her for not listening to me, for being right, for being wrong. Basically, I’d hit her for being an inquisitive child, always coming to me with animated curiosity. She seemed to have everything go her way, never seemed to have any burdens. Everyone would be nice to her. She’d have toys, enjoy them for a while, then toss them aside. Those toys were neglected without a second thought. It didn’t seem to bother her that those toys she’d tossed aside were once loved by someone. Then there were ‘big, bad, wolves’. Somehow, the wolves did not target the ‘baby’, and for a long time, this left me utterly confused.     

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