wants

Max..."wanted to be where someone loved him best of all." I have found these words from Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak, resounding in my head frequently over the years.

This book captivated me as a small child. I could not even tell you whose book it was. If it was my book, and I feel certain it was not, or perhaps my cousin's. Or maybe it was at the house of a friend or from the library. I remember sitting and staring at the pictures, the individual lines that made up the shading in each picture. My favorite were the pictures where Max's bedroom turns into a forest. I can not describe the longing within me for my own room to turn into a forest. I am only sure that if such a thing were possible by really wishing for it, my room would have been a forest. Being in the woods, when I was a child, was perhaps, my most favorite thing. And if my bedroom could have turned into woods in my very own world...I would not be here now.

And so Max journeys into the land where the wild things are. And so they make him king because he is the most wild thing of all. Well, Max learns that being a wild thing is not all it's cracked up to be and "wants to be where someone loves him best of all." So he goes home.

How nice for Max.

I should like to know what would have become of Max if he was sent by his mother to where the wild things are and she would not let him come home. And what if where the wild things are was not a living forest where all were free to enjoy a wild rumpus continually, but really it was a cruel world, where the wild things steal Max's childhood and make him a slave. And he wants to be where someone loves him best of all, but continuously remembers that such a place does not exist.

I guess Max gets the best of both worlds. I am left with the longing and the words "wants to be where someone loves him best of all" ringing through my head.

What I Meant to Tell You

I can't remember now
when it first showed up,
whether or not
it arrived with you.
Regardless,
there it was.

When I first noticed it
I stuck it in a corner.
Often it remained there.
I could carry on
with it out of the way.
Though I did my best
I could not ignore it.
I would see it,
come across it,
trip over it,
while searching
for something else
in the corner.

Occasionally
it would be sitting out.
How hard it was
to ignore!
On other occasions
I'd pull it out,
play with it,
ponder over it,
when I was sure
it would not come open.
But, never for long.
Back it would go.

For years
it was there,
all but forgotten,
able, at last,
to collect some dust.

We were playing a game.
It was only a game.
You resigned.
I couldn't figure out
what you were doing.
Finally, I resigned.
I couldn't think.
I put my head down,
my hands hanging over
the back of the chair.
With the slightest touch
your finger
opened it.
I was scared to look up.
I was scared to see it open.
When I finally looked
there it was
spilling out
everywhere.
I told you it was open,
all you could say was,
"I know."

This is
what I meant to tell you
when all I could say was,
"I love you."

And now
I try to put the lid
back on,
but I can't get it
back on.
I can't ask you,
and I can ask
no one else.
I shove the whole mess
back in the corner.
And though I do my best
I can't ignore it.

Did we say goodbye?