earlier this year, i was walking back to my apartment at dusk. it was early spring, really windy, big branches littered in the middle of the road, wheelie bins on their sides, their lids flapping like the mouths of dying fish.
on the concrete, a few houses down from me, lay this little ringtail possum, on her side, fallen out of the tree in the wind. her eyes were open and round and wet, looking at me. she was moving, a little bit, but if she wasnât injured she would never have let me get this close.
i called WIRES (wildlife rescue organisation), and they told me to wrap her in a blanket and bring her inside, and so i did. i carefully wrapped her up and put her in an old cat carrier, which i set down on the middle of my floor. i sat next to it, peering through the metal bars and crossing my fingers that she would be okay. it was much like schrĂśdingerâs cat.
when the WIRES volunteer was outside, she called me. her voice was shaky and nervousâ she seemed like the kind of person who gets along better with animals than people. i carried my box downstairs, and in the lobby of my apartment building, she opened the door of the carrier, and gently picked up my beautiful possum with her bare hands. she hung, limply, head flopping, but her tail still had a beautiful ringlet at the end. a single drop of blood fell out of her mouth and onto the tiled floor.
âsheâs dead,â said the lady. i did gather this but i appreciated her narration. i felt like i was about to cry, and she looked like she wasnât too far away from crying either. she wrapped up the possum in a towel and took her to the vet, anyway. she could have joeys, after all.
âthank you for trying,â the woman said, as I held open the door for her to leave.
itâs been a long year for me. i spent about three months in the middle of it in bed, with a series of colds i was convinced was something more serious, but i donât need to go into my extreme health anxiety. anyway, i was thinking a lot about death. i feel like i should have outgrown this fear, but i really havenât. i canât help the time i spend worrying about how any number of band things could happen to me or the people i love at any moment. but i also canât control the bad things. at any moment, i could be blown off of a tree branch by the wind in my sleep, and despite the care of strangers, that could be it for me.
but well, i do try, anyway.
i havenât stopped thinking about the possum. i did this painting of her last night. she looked so peaceful, lying there on the concrete.
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