The Opossum That Came Home to Die
I knew that my Easter was in full swing.
Easter, my anniversary of falling out of Catholicism, or more like getting back up on St. Paul’s horse and riding away into Agnostic Territory, always causes me so much grief.
And then. I found out that the furry body under my and Walt’s Lilic Bush was an opossum.
Maybe he was Apple, that first opossum, sighted 2934 miles and 55 years away, who was perched outside my nighttime bedroom window, staring straight at me —-so still, to hide his being?
Or was he Old Lester, snap-shotted, tangled high in my lemon tree, just a year ago?
All I DID know was that my so much sadness and coffee tears were for Me and for Apple and for Old Lester and for all the Old Souls who had put me here, at precisely this moment, spinning.
But tell me? Did I degrade Apple or Old Lester or Possum Spirit, whomever might he be, by having his carcass hauled off by a grumpy city employee who had to work on a Sunday, and Easter Sunday, at that —- a person tasked with hauling bodies that did not rise on Easter?
I looked out in time to see Apple or Old Lester or Possum Spirit, swinging in black plastic, toted to a place to be dumped and mercifully burned. Was it merciful? Or should I have let my Possum Friend’s body decompose stinkily under the lilacs?
Was it okay? —- Please tell me that it was OKAY! to have his body carted off so rudely.
In Sri Lanka close to 300 people were killed, many in churches, today —— an Easter massacre.
There are no words for these, my tears that are privileged by their very breathing existence.
For Old Lester
For The Murdered in Sri Lanka
Diana Maria Rossi