“Read it again.” He would say in a voice that blended command with hopeful wishing. Blue eyes fixed, silk strands falling around his face, he would pop his thumb back into his mouth, bunching Blankie up tight in his lap.
Night after night I read about Max driving his mother crazy “making mischief on one kind…or another,”
I would read “Max’s mother called him…”
“and she sent him to bed without his supper.” I would finish, watching a glaze of injustice ripple through
I never knew why this was his favorite story and wavered between the fact that he himself was a wild thing and the power Max finds over the frightening creatures by “staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once.” Probably a bit of both.
That seems a lifetime ago as
You can imagine my reaction.
Wild Thing came to mind.
I was horrified.
I was also certain he would not go through with the tattoo.
I was mistaken.
Wild Things are forever.
Happy Birthday Wild Thing.