A Pageant of Wolves

Once upon a time, when the bricks of his life were yet uncracked, still sun-warmed, and the mortar was crisper in its eggshell white , a small boy broke his mother’s heart. In his pale fist he held a porcelain figurine, one of several his mother held dear and which she had lovingly arranged along windowsills...his tiny hand held the best one—a genuine Hummel...a small boy with blonde wavy hair, hiding an armful of flowers—or apples, as his eyes preferred to see, chestnut-colored and fragrant crimson — and at his feet appeared a tiny dog. She treasured it above all others, because it was special, because it was well-made and artistic—and because she thought it looked a little like the boy who now held its fate in his hand. The porcelain boy looked perhaps more rosy-cheeked and shining, and, sad to say, less cruel. He was fussing now, tantrum-mouthed and stormy-eyed, knowing he shouldn’t touch it, let alone lift it above the cast-iron shimmer of the bathtub. She treasur...