It was a sad day when Val Wolf was shot. My sister loved him. He had the coolest-blue color of eyes one had ever seen, and his hair was blonde and wind-swept and teased at his face. She was instantly smitten.
He had put a ring on her finger—or really, it was the string of the yo-yo she was tossing when she met him. He had taken her yo-yo and was demonstrating his lack of prowess with the toy before returning it back to her, placing it on her finger like a ring. He asked her name, and then he told her his, “Val Wolf”.
She came home and regaled me, her younger sister, with the entire romantic story. She wrote her first name with his last all over her notebook. She knew where he worked, had met him outside his shop as she and our other sister were walking home. She would go by there again tomorrow and the next day and the next and talk to him and visit with him.
We heard a short while later that he was killed in a hunting accident—he was not wearing the conspicuous, brightly colored clothing that would inhibit an anxious hunter and was shot by mistake and died by the time he reached the hospital.
And so my sister’s last name is not Wolf. I wonder if she ever thinks of him. I wonder if she still has that yo-yo.