About a Squirrel. And Longing

I feel like I should have something important to say, or at least specific, but my energy is rather scattered today. It is late afternoon, and while I managed to cross off all the items on my errand list, once I got home everything got a little out of whack. I didn’t clean up the breakfast dishes until—oh wait, they’re still sitting on the counter—and I haven’t done anything I thought I might do once I returned from said errands. Somehow I ended up tweaking my website, which brought me here, to a new blog entry, with no idea what to talk about.

I can share that the sun is sinking into the horizon a little bit later each day now, that winter has provided extreme temperatures in the single digits but not much snow. Our brick patio is currently an ice skating rink. And while I don’t feel the stirrings of spring just yet, I know it’s there, hidden beneath the surface of grass that looks like straw and small patches of snow.

I can tell you about one of the squirrels in our backyard, the one that knows the only way he can get to the buffet of bird seed we provide is by leaping from the fence to the feeder, where an abundance of tiny morsels await. After considering his options from the ground, he makes his way to the fence post and contemplates his leap, tail twitching back and forth. After a moment of concentration, he suddenly springs into the air, and I can practically see his tiny squirrel fingers stretching out toward the feeder.

Alas, he usually misses on the first try.

…but does not give up, and repeats this brief gymnastics routine as many times as necessary until, eventually, he has success. I think if he had a little squirrel flag—emblazoned with his squirrel family crest, perhaps—he would plant it in the pile of birdseed triumphantly before engaging in the work of stuffing his face. While my husband tends to be annoyed by the squirrel’s intrusion into bird territory, I can’t help but root for him. He works hard to get to the top. I always smile when he nails the landing.

When I last wrote, it was to share a bit about the loss of our sweet Tilda. The only update I have on that is to say that we are still missing her like crazy, that we still can’t quite believe she is gone. There are times when I am sitting perfectly still—in a car, on a sofa—and I suddenly feel so desperate to touch her and hold her I imagine myself splitting in two. I don’t mean in half, but as if my skin didn’t merely contain all my veins and organs and bones but also some ephemeral part of me that has the ability to move beyond the physical limits of my body. That part of me, for a few seconds, seems to be able to escape the confines of this world, but it doesn’t give me what I so furiously want, which is to feel the solidity of Tilda—her fur and her nose and her wiggly body.

I first experienced this strange splitting apart when my dad died, and the image is always the same: my body is not moving, but on another plane of existence I am leaning forward, arms reaching out, fingers spread apart. It is slightly disconcerting, this deep longing to pull away from my body, but also oddly comforting. There is something about it that feels….normal. This is grief, and it exists because there was—is—love, plain and simple.

I came across a small container of dog treats earlier this week. Most of what was Tilda’s has been given away, shared, or stored in the basement until we can donate it, so this was an unexpected find. My first instinct was to simply throw them away, but then I thought of our industrious squirrel, and all his squirrel buddies, and instead tossed them outside in our yard. That was two days ago, and they’re already all gone. My husband and I tried our best to give Tilda a happy, comfortable life, and we also do what we can to take care of the other creatures that wander through our yard. We keep the bird feeder filled week after week. I cut up and toss out apples that have gone soft. In the spring, we put out oranges for the orioles. It makes me happy that this last little smattering of Tilda treats fed the squirrels; it was another opportunity to keep spreading that love, to keep taking care of whoever shows up at our door.