Life Cycles

Note: This is an oldie--I wrote it in college. But it's still one of my favorites!

There it is again. That spot in the road. I've passed it every day this week and last. It is almost unrecognizable now--almost a pile of dust. But I remember the first time I saw it. Fresh. Twisted--almost alive--still warm?--brilliant, red, vibrant, but dead. An unsuccessful dash across the road--with an especially desirable acorn to store for winter?--in that extra special cache on the other side?

Cringing, I swerved--offering more space than necessary--to avoid any contact. I averted my eyes to avoid seeing the last evidence of life oozing from the tiny mouth of the squirrel that lay across the white line of the road.

Passing the same spot the next day, I swerved a little less--I offered less distance. I averted my eyes more slowly. The bright red liquid coming from the mouth was now frozen--crusty and black. The body still lay twisted across the center line, but something--not swerving away as I had done--possibly swerving to?--had flattened the once bushy tail.

Each day I drove past that spot in the road, I swerved less. I winced less. The legs became flattened against the pavement. The red fur became colorless, blending into the road beneath it.

Gradually, the legs, tail, head became separate entities of their own--disconnected from the whole--no longer a part of the giant red squirrel of that first day.

And now it is a pile of dust. I think nothing now of driving over it--through it! I no longer hesitate to mangle and destroy what little is left of life there in the middle of the road, in that pile of dust.

At some point someone will walk barefoot over this pile of dust, scattering it, redepositing it into the berm where dandelions will use it to germinate their seed. Children will mix it with water and form it into mud pies and "gingerbread" men. Trees will be planted; skyscrapers built. At some point, the pile of dust in the middle of the road, the dead red squirrel, will once again become life.