From a snowbank I watched the squirrel run. It was dusk, the worst of the snow finally over, and the squirrel bounded across the path, everything smooth and flat, dusky white—and then she darted out onto the frozen pond. She did not hesitate. She was not afraid.
On land, I sank my nose into my scarf, the wool faintly mildewed. It smelled like the apartment. Like the deepest part of the closet. What a rush to stand out here instead and watch the squirrel vault across the ice, unaware of the risk or unafraid, chasing the promise of better foraging, fewer predators, warmer dens. Snowflakes glittered in the lamplight. The squirrel reached the middle of the pond. I was rooting for her. I wanted her to make it.
And she did. It’s all I’ve thought about since, how the ice didn’t crack, how the squirrel ran up onto the far bank, gray fur disappearing over a knoll. I walk to the pond every day now, looking for her, scouring the shore for animal prints. I stand by the snowbank and wait, aching to witness another breathtaking run.
I want that bravery, too.
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