The Sidewalk Squirrel

Almost every weekday morning I walk the same route with Angela to school and then I leave her in the parking lot and continue on. I walk about ninety minutes each morning and pass by the same houses, the same streets, the same gardeners, sometimes even the same other people exercising, each day.

I also pass by the same dead squirrel. Every single day.

A few weeks ago this squirrel met it's fate on the side of the road. I assume it was run over by a car but I'm really not sure because it was on the curb. (Side Note: I've also seen two dead crows on my walks this fall, though in different neighborhoods, and way too many smashed snails.) I momentarily considered how sad this was but kept moving. I assumed someone would take care of it, most likely the homeowner. But no.

Each day the squirrel becomes less of a squirrel and more of the earth. If you didn't know there was a dead squirrel in this part of the dirt near the big tree roots that protrude up from the sidewalk on Sixth Street, you wouldn't notice it. What was once a carcass is now becoming part of the earth it came from. This morning I noted that there's a bit of the tail still there but not much else.

I'm not bothered by this poor, dead squirrel. I imagine, to make myself feel better, it had a full long life and met it's fate doing what it loved to do, running. The carcass doesn't smell and it's not a gory bloody site. It never was. It's simply something that was once living and no longer is. It's simply an empty shell now. Fibers and organic material that's becoming something else.

What I'm bothered by is the idea that this squirrel is gone and no one will remember it. Yes, it's a squirrel, I get that. But I'm thinking larger now. I'm thinking about the most important thing to me -- me.

Because that's really the fear I have. That one day I will be gone and no one will remember I was here. I get that feeling when I think about all of the people I've lost in my life. When I think about the fact that as of today, I have no descendents. I have no spouse. I have not even a plot of land I can claim as my own.

Is it morbid? Yes. Is it terrifying? Yes. Is my birthday coming up again soon? Yes.

But it's also something every single person on this earth faces on a regular basis. The idea that we want to be something, someone, who is cared for, loved, thought of, remembered. And I see it in the people in my life.

This Tuesday I headed off to Hollywood as I do most Tuesday mornings and I set about with the business of handing out lunches and clothing and hygiene products to our guests. And I thought about this while I was there too. These people, standing in line for a sack lunch, for a washed but clearly used new to them tee-shirt, must feel what I feel. They must want to connect on such a basic level that the starvation of such connection can be life-threatening, just as it can be for me. I was reminded of this mostly by the lovely interactions I had with my friends as the morning wore on.

"Detroit, you aren't crying? I was sure you'd be crying!" came the voice of James, one of my favorite friends at lunch.

He smiled shyly at me and I knew immediately what he meant.

"No, I had to dry my tears yesterday. One day of crying was enough."

He was teasing me about the Detroit Tigers. I often wear a Tigers tee or hat or bracelet to lunch and James has taken to calling me Detroit. Usually quietly, as he says hello or thanks me for something. He always knows the score of the game from the day before or in this week's case, the fact that the Tigers had been knocked out of the playoffs. He's not from Michigan, he's not even a big baseball fan but he's taken it upon himself to find a way to connect with me. With another human being.

As some of the other guys in line joined in the conversation, teasing me for hating on L.A. teams and sticking to my hometown alliances, I considered for a moment that we weren't talking about lunch or toothbrushes or what size shirts they wore. We were interacting as human beings, on an interpersonal level. Something I needed sorely that morning. More than even I knew.

I spend so much time alone, at a desk, as many of us do, that I have to remember to exert energy on what really matters. To take the time to focus on the bigger picture. On what that little squirrel on the curb, or rather now part of the curb, means.

I don't want to disappear. I don't want to fade away. And after a month of not hearing back from the television network, a month of not hearing back about the faculty job I obviously did not get, a month of "high anxiety" as we call it here on Abbey Place, I'm finally starting to remember that there are other things worth focusing my attention on as well. No, I'm not abandoning the desk. I'm likely not even going to spend fewer hours here behind the keyboard. But I am going to be conscious about leaving a mark. Leaving a legacy. Even if it's just through a simple smile or a kind conversation with another of God's children. Just as that squirrel left me with something to remember, I hope to leave the people in my life with something to remember as well.