You bought ears. A whole tail, too, and it swishes when you walk because you move on purpose to make it swish. Where did you learn to do that? Nobody told me you could just decide to have a tail.
There are hundreds of them. Big soft heads with huge kind eyes, paws waving, everybody hugging strangers like the strangers were friends the whole time and just got here late. One of them knelt down to high-five a little kid and the kid screamed happy, not scared, and you screamed a little too.
I used to draw wolves on all my homework. You yelled at me for that. Not you, the other grown-ups. They said stop, they said it's not real, they said pick something serious. And here you are in a hotel with a thousand people who all kept drawing the wolf.
You made me a promise once, under the blanket with the flashlight. You said when you grew up you'd have a costume that was really you, not a store one, not a scratchy one your mom picked. A real one. And you did. It took you this long but you did.
Your face is sweaty inside the head. You take it off between the panels to drink water and you're grinning so wide it looks like it hurts.
Can I try it on? Just for a second.
I want to see if it fits the way I always thought it would.