I Remember

I am faced with a monstrous-sized husky. He’s not growling, but he is staring at me intently. I know what he wants. He wants me.

“Mommy! Mommy!” my daughter cries. “His name is Fred! He’s so cute! Can we keep him? Pleeeease?”

I stare into the dog’s wolf-like eyes. Then I remember my journey down the esophagus. I had been a fool, and I had paid for it in full. It was dark all around.

“Please mommy?” my daughter begs. I snap back to the present.

“No,” I say firmly. “You have to give it back.”

“But mommy!”

“No! Now hurry up. We have to go to grandma’s house.”

Grandma. Yes. She was there too. I remember her holding my hand. I remember her telling me it’ll be all right.

“I thought it was you!” I tried to explain.

Grandma just shushed me and told me to forget about it. The darkness was thick.
I now watch my daughter begrudgingly cross the street to return the dog to our neighbor Mr. Hunter. He is a good man.

I remember the darkness being broken by a sliver of light. It grew wider and brighter. A strong hand pulled me out. It was like being born again. I was being made new. I promised to never again mistake wolves for women.