By Swetha Amit
The dead brown squirrel has been in my garden for two days. I should have placed her in a box and buried her, but it has been raining incessantly. Every time I open the door, a blast of icy air mixed with the smell of wet mud and rotting fruit hits me. Despite feeling guilty, I go straight back to the warmth of my couch. From the window, I watch rain create puddles that surround the dead squirrel. On the muddy ground, she lies on her stomach, her once bushy tail now slumped like a ragged cloth. There are no signs of blood. She probably got sick from the rainy weather in Palo Alto. No cure. Left to rot with the sickness eating her from the inside.
It’s the same squirrel I saw scurrying along the edges of my fence, climbing up the branches of the trees, and darting across my lawn. She was a silent companion in my solitary life. Occasionally, she’d greet me with a tilt of her head. Her dark brown eyes would watch me until I turned to do my mundane chores. She had a black line running down her left eye, like a stained eyeliner. Sometimes, I’d see her chasing another squirrel up the branches of the trees. Maybe it was her baby or a mate; I couldn’t tell. It was a sight that brought a smile to my face. Sometimes, I’d see her munching on a fruit, oblivious to everything around her. I’d secretly take pictures of her with my phone. Sometimes I’d hear a thudding noise on my roof, like something running on it. I knew it had to be her. That noise assured me that she was around. That she hadn’t left a fifty-year-old woman living by herself, with two sons studying and working in Boston and New York, and a husband who succumbed to a terminal illness a year ago.
Once, while making coffee, I saw her peeping in from the kitchen window. Was she trying to come inside? Was she hungry? Was she curious? I couldn’t tell. I left the window open with a bowl of water and nuts. She ate the nuts and drank some water. But she never came inside the house. Perhaps she was happy nesting among the branches. Maybe the large appliances, such as the refrigerator or microwave in my kitchen, frightened her. I watched how she skillfully made her way on the edges of the fence. I was afraid she’d fall, but she was quick and nimble like an Olympic gymnast. Back in my childhood, I was scared of handstands and cartwheels. They made me throw up. My mother ruefully pulled me out of the gymnastics class and enrolled me in tennis and guitar lessons instead. I played tennis through college until my tech career took over. Eventually, my age and bad knees caught up with me.
The squirrel always seemed to be hustling like Bay Area traffic. But watching her relaxed me. Even her squeak had a rhythm. Every time she’d squeak, her tail curled inward as if it were an instrument. It was the first thing I heard in the mornings, and sometimes in the afternoons. It reminded me of my guitar in the attic—the guitar I strummed throughout my school years whenever I was home alone as an only child, while my parents were at work. I strummed the guitar when I wasn’t invited to a classmate’s birthday sleepover. I strummed the guitar after my first boyfriend cheated on me with my best friend in college. Maybe I should find it and start playing all over again.
The rain continues steadily. My roof makes a thud sound with the pitter-patter of the downpour. I lay awake at night, filled with an aching emptiness, knowing it isn’t the squirrel. The next day, the rain stops. I step outside with a cardboard box. The dead squirrel floats in a puddle surrounded by scattered leaves and broken twigs.. I feel my stomach go hollow and cold. What if someone I knew left me to rot in the rain? Guilt enveloped me again. I wonder what happened to her companion. Did it abandon her, leaving her all alone in the dark gray weather? I gingerly pick her up and put her inside the cardboard box. Her eyes are closed. Her body and tail are stiff.
I stroke her furry body for the first and last time. Then I wrap the cardboard box.
It starts to rain again. At first, it is gentle and light. Then it turns into a heavy downpour. Each drop stings my face and blurs my eyes. The raindrops soon merge with the tears gushing down my face. My teeth chatter as an icy gust of wind blows. I grab my shovel and dig the wet, muddy ground, determined to give my furry pal a decent burial and to redeem my irresponsibility for letting her lie in a pool of murky water for so long. I manage to dig a hole. I place the box, close my eyes, and mutter a small prayer. Then I fill the hole with the wet mud. My hand hurts. The rain continues to pummel me.
I rush inside the house. Through the window, I see the world outside turning a misty gray. The rain is pounding on my roof. I go up to the attic and find my old guitar. I pick it up and start strumming. The notes are rusty at first. I strum harder until my fingers hurt, until I find the lost rhythm, until the sound drowns out the noise on the roof. When I stop playing, the rain has stopped. Outside, it’s getting dark. The spot where the dead squirrel lay is now filled with a puddle. I am glad she is in a better place in another world. I pick up my phone and look through her photos. I wonder why I never gave her a name.
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Swetha is an MFA Graduate from the University of San Francisco. The author of a memoir, A Turbulent Mind, and three chapbooks. Her words appear in Had, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Cream City Review, and others. A member of the Writers Grotto, her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fiction.