He is a wild thing,
except when he is cradled in Max's arms,
or sleeping on the clean laundry, in the dryer, on my chair,
then he's a fluff,
a woodgie-woodgie muffin of love. And we love him so.
But when he's cornered a lizard, brought home a mouse, a bunny,
wrestled a gopher,
when he nips the hand that feeds him,
then he is a wild thing,
and we love him so.
“I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more.” ~Maurice Sendak.
Farewell, and thank you for your art and stories, Mr. Sendak.