{"id":12634,"date":"2024-11-26T20:42:23","date_gmt":"2024-11-26T19:42:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12634"},"modified":"2024-11-26T22:11:52","modified_gmt":"2024-11-26T21:11:52","slug":"on-the-falseness-of-wolves","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12634","title":{"rendered":"On the Falseness of Wolves"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"
Image: \u00a9 Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 wolves aren\u2019t real<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She said it with the smooth-shouldered arrogance of youthful certainty. At first, I wasn\u2019t sure I heard her right. I asked her what she said and she calmly reasserted \u2013 Wolves aren\u2019t real.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 wolves arent real daddy<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0but you have seen them before<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0yes but they arent real<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She dismissed my argument that Canis Lupus, <\/em>is in fact a real thing. She dismissed it with the wrathful contempt that only a child can muster. I was left confused and more than a little doubtful of my own sanity; my eclectic collection of neuroses grew by one item that day.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0 i long for the lost days of my youth<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0my eyes were not yet veiled by the bitter smoulder of time and responsibility<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0before my self was corroded by disappointment <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0and the cruel malice of regret<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0i am no longer young <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

She is as ideologically promiscuous as a failing politician, desperate to win just one more election. She speaks with utter conviction, even when she contradicts herself. She recognises the contradictions when they are pointed out and simply shrugs. Today\u2019s Cora is not the same as Yesterday\u2019s Cora and my failure to understand the distinction is just that \u2013 it is my <\/em>failure.<\/p>\n

Vituperative words are spoken regarding my knowledge of the world or perhaps the lack thereof.<\/p>\n

dial it back a step, champ. You go too far. <\/em><\/p>\n

She apologises but still refuses to accept that wolves are real.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

i have a photograph of you, sweet child<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 at colchester zoo<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 standing in front of a window<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0behind you, there are several wolves<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and you are smiling as you watch them <\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My heart can barely contain the love I have for her and when she turns those dazzling eyes to me, I can see the fire burning behind them. She is as bright and fierce as the sun, and I am immeasurably proud of her. Her excited voice can paint pictures with words, pouring from her at the speed of hope but she cannot find a shoe when it rests closer to her foot than her knee. This distresses her and the joyful mood is pierced by anxious tears.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You will carry with you<\/em><\/p>\n

All the things that I have given you<\/em><\/p>\n

Sweet and bitter things<\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019m sorry. I couldn\u2019t help it<\/em><\/p>\n

Though I tried<\/em><\/p>\n

To keep the bad parts to myself, they slipped past me while I slept <\/em><\/p>\n

And dreamed of being a better man and father<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You will carry with you <\/em><\/p>\n

My faults and all the things I could not catch <\/em><\/p>\n

As they fell, you picked them up,<\/em><\/p>\n

And I couldn\u2019t stop you<\/em><\/p>\n

Though I tried<\/em><\/p>\n

To keep you from pain that you will feel because of things I didn\u2019t know I\u2019d done<\/em><\/p>\n

While I imagined being a better man and father<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You will carry with you<\/em><\/p>\n

The love and hope that I feel <\/em><\/p>\n

When I look into your eyes <\/em><\/p>\n

And see myself reflected in them<\/em><\/p>\n

Though I tried<\/em><\/p>\n

To hold on to every second of every memory, I will forget some<\/em><\/p>\n

When I felt like a better man and father<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You will carry with you<\/em><\/p>\n

The spark of hope that sustains me <\/em><\/p>\n

As I watch you play and run<\/em><\/p>\n

While I prayed that you would be a better person than me<\/em><\/p>\n

Though I tried<\/em><\/p>\n

To do the best I could, I didn\u2019t really know how<\/em><\/p>\n

To be a better man and father<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You will carry with you<\/em><\/p>\n

So many beautiful and terrible things<\/em><\/p>\n

The best and worst parts of me<\/em><\/p>\n

You will hold your head higher than I ever could <\/em><\/p>\n

Though I tried<\/em><\/p>\n

To have strength of my own, you let me borrow some of yours<\/em><\/p>\n

And made me a better man and father<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

I wish that I could raise you free from trauma, but some things are passed by blood and take root despite our best efforts to thwart their growth. You will learn to deal with it. Like me, you won\u2019t have a choice. (That isn\u2019t true. You will have a choice. Master your demons or become them. Granted, it is not much of a choice, but of the two, you must choose one).<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

wolves, she says, don\u2019t live in our world. <\/em><\/p>\n

ah! she concedes a point! <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Our World<\/em> is a recent development that encompasses her knowledge of the physical sphere in which she exists as the gravitational centre. Dinosaurs no longer live in our world. Granny and Grandad do <\/em>live in our world, but they live in a distant part of it separated by a vastness of space so great that it takes a mind boggling five hours to drive across.\u00a0 Our World<\/em> is a demarcation of the immediacy of Her<\/em> World<\/em>. Things and places from which we are isolated become a wispy dream the farther away we are from them.<\/p>\n

The questions come, as endless as the universe. Each answer spawns another question and the cycle will endure, until I feel a bit like Dresden in February of 1945. I answer them all until the blowtorch flame of her attention is refocused elsewhere. She wants to know so many things, primary in her mind is the most glorious question of all \u2013 Why?<\/em><\/p>\n

I never want her to stop asking questions, even when I desperately need<\/em> her to stop asking questions.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

there is a place\/somewhere in the space between us<\/em><\/p>\n

that contains all the words we haven\u2019t said to each other yet<\/em><\/p>\n

somewhere in that space\/one day in the future<\/em><\/p>\n

you will know how much i love you<\/em><\/p>\n

you have been the making of me<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It is what it is because if it wasn\u2019t, then it wouldn\u2019t be.<\/em><\/p>\n

She looks at me, confused.<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t worry. It\u2019ll make sense one day.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

____<\/p>\n

Michael is a mature student studying Creative Writing at Teesside University. He is currently working on his first novel \u2018The Solace of Still Water\u2019 as well as a short collection of poetry.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Image: \u00a9 Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 wolves aren\u2019t real   She said it with the smooth-shouldered arrogance of youthful certainty. At first, I wasn\u2019t sure I heard her right. I asked her what she said and she calmly […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":394,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[376,425,427,403],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nOn the Falseness of Wolves - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=12634\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"On the Falseness of Wolves - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Image: \u00a9 Manchester Museum, The University of Manchester \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 wolves aren\u2019t real   She said it with the smooth-shouldered arrogance of youthful certainty. 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