The last of the possums

I had begun to mourn.

I hadn’t seen Vera and Skydiver for a week. Previously, they had never been away for more than three days. I wouldn’t have been worried except that the last time I saw them they seemed very despondent. Neither would eat the apple we offered. I wondered if they were sick, and when they disappeared I feared the worst. I tried to reassure myself with the thought that Skydiver had probably just grown too big and energetic to be contained in the small space on top of the cupboard and that Vera had taken him farther afield in search of a new home.

Still I worried, all the while telling myself that I ought to let the natural world take care of itself and get on with being an artist.

I arose late yesterday morning, and when I wandered out onto the verandah to eat my breakfast, my husband greeted me with a smile and “they’re back.”

And so they were. Skydiver was considerably bigger … big enough to compete for the apple.

They were gone again today, and I suspect they’ll be gone for good soon, but I can rest easy knowing they didn’t die of a mysterious illness.

Thus ends, I hope, my ridiculous obsession with possums on the verandah … a ploy to avoid any ‘real’ writing, whatever that may be.




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