Page 124 - Dark Matter:Women Witnessing Issue2

On an empty road closer to home, I

saw yet another dead squirrel in the

middle of the lane. I pulled my car

over. The squirrel’s body was warm as

I carried her out of the road. I could

feel her body pulsing. I choked with

grief, then walked away for a moment.

I looked for a place to lay her, checking

for leaves, brush, sticks and grasses for

a ritual burial. The paved asphalt

touched a wall at someone’s land or

home. There was only cement and dust all around me. I returned to the squirrel. It appeared for a

moment that she was breathing. Of course it was impossible: I had just pulled her lifeless body from

the road, and the blood trail that followed her led to a great red gash in her side. But from where she

lay, peacefully now, out of the thrall of cars, she could appear whole.

I looked around again. She could not remain here, where cars would only come again and again until

she was annihilated.

I wrapped her in paper towels and put her in a small box in my car. When I brought her inside later that

evening, the paper towels were covered with bright red blood, like a woman’s menstrual napkin. She

was still bleeding slightly as I laid her upon a cloth in my room. By instinct I surrounded her with

redwood cones, pine needles and acorns. The squirrel was immediately restful—and beautiful. I gazed

at the little ears, the whiskers, the elegant paws. Her eyes were half-­‐closed. She was full-­‐grown,

mature, her tail long and full. I was aware of the honor to be so close to this creature, to be allowed to

gaze upon her beautiful lashes and soft fur, the perfection of her physiology, how entirely suited she

was to her life.

Again, it seemed she was breathing. I had laid her out on her untouched side, where there was no

massive gash from a car. It was undeniable that the pulse of life was still with her. She was still

relinquishing her life. The next afternoon, my wife Jean returned home from teaching school to find