Two days ago on
my walk at work,
alongside the
county road lay a raccoon,
body so fresh I
wanted to reach out
and touch its
nose and I know
if you were
here you would have been
as intrigued as
I in the small leathery
snout and tiny
hands, still outstretched,
and we would
create some story to go along
with its
upturned belly and shortened life.
When I got
home, the air so dry
it smelled of
newly shed pencil shavings,
my roommate had
gotten rid of a snake
she trapped in
our basement—
her fear of
this harmless garter
so severe she
screamed beforehand—
and I know if
you were here, you would
have examined
each stripe and the
forked tongue
and scales before
taking it back
outside.
Tonight I
started watching Life On Our Planet
on Netflix as
you suggested, and I know
if you were
here we would be enamored
with each fact
and creature, and have to stop
the program to
have conversations about
what we were
learning.
Later on my way
out of town I had to
slow down on
the highway to let a coyote
finish crossing
the road. He planted
his paws and
straightened his legs
in such a
stance, head bowed, that it
seemed he was
thanking me for waiting,
for saving him.
I know if you were here,
you would
appreciate that.
Nora Rose Tomas
says that to love something
means that you
can’t quite hold it, and I know
now that you
are an adult
I can no longer
hold you here, keep you
from moving out
on your own. Though my home
is now your
permanent residence,
your room
usually remains empty as you are
out exploring
the world. But I also know
the heart has
many rooms,
and there is a
space in mine where I
still hold you,
forever in my love.
Tansy Julie the
Soaring Eagle Paschold
10.4.24