Once upon a time, there was a grown woman who carried a squirrel everywhere she went. To the market, to the school, to the gatherings of friends and family, to her bed. Everywhere she went, the squirrel went.
The woman had carried the squirrel for so long, so many years, that she didn’t even notice she carried it anymore. It was just there. A part of her, like her arm or her pinky toe. And no one ever said anything because it wasn’t nice to point out the obvious.
Finally, a good friend—a very good friend—took a deep, shuddering breath as she turned to the woman, “That squirrel reeks! It’s dead and rotting and the nasty thing stinks! Why do you always carry that damn, dead squirrel?”
The woman looked down in surprise at the squirrel in her arms. And she remembered.
She remembered a little girl who was called into the woods by a slightly older boy. Called in to see THE DEAD SQUIRREL. “Come see, come see!” he called, as she followed him deeper into the woods. But the call to see the squirrel was a ruse, a trick to get her into the woods so he could do what he wanted with her.
When he was done and gone and she had straightened her clothes as best she could and looked for a soft place in the dirt to bury her torn panties so her mother wouldn’t see, she found the small, brown squirrel. It wasn’t all a lie, there really had been a dead squirrel.
Her tears fell on its still body as she picked it up. She cradled the tiny creature in her arms, stroking its soft fur in search of comfort--for both of them.
“The squirrel is dead!” her friend called her back. And handed her a shovel.
1 comment:
Do you need to borrow my shovel? Some boot straps perhaps?
Just don't throw any dog legs at me.
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