1. Preparing
On those special childhood afternoons when the world outside was pressed for all its worth, I’d gather the supplies necessary for a squirrel show. Pounding through dusty hallways, scuttling up and down the basement’s fearful steps, and lurking through the kitchen’s drawers, my small hands, sweaty from excitement, searched, discovered, and collected.
I found a plastic bucket smelling of the blended, sweet echo of Halloween candy, deep enough to fit a bowling ball and several crammed-in Beanie Babies. I’d fill the pail with snacks from the kitchen, some forgotten by my parents, others stolen from under their noses: a half-filled sleeve of Saltines, stale after being left open for a week, an unopened box of Triscuits, two packages of Lay’s with grease already around the edges, and the careless Cheez-It crumbles rattling at the bottom of the bag.
With the bucket full, I’d heft it with small-boned arms to the outside world, where the jays bullied robins and the robins snipped back. I stumbled down the porch’s steps, from which red paint peeled up in tongues. A foot or so away from the bottom stair, I positioned the bucket on a continent of pebbled pavement, separated from the rest by cords of dandelions and other quick-witted weeds. With the squirrel show carefully, animatedly set up, I’d return to the bottom step and wait, sometimes accompanied by friends or sisters, sometimes not. Co-hosts present or not, I’d watch patiently for my first performer, my breath eager and loud in the silence.
II. Anticipating
The fishtank filter hums as its waterfall tiptoes on the surface of the water. The angelfish within drifts forward and back. With its saucer eye, it regards the room: the closet doors overtaken by Post-it notes, books collapsing into rainbow gradients on shelves, and a desk crowded by leaves and cacti, at which a lone girl sits, staring back.
I look at the fish, and then return to the words on my screen. The cursor stutters at the blank line following. The sentence is slow to draw near and scatters at the crackling of my keyboard, but I am patient. I look for support in my notes, pages filled with odd sentences, reminders about the story’s timeline, and a plot skeleton marked halfway through with roman numerals, the other half with arabic numerals. My eyes snag on one of those odd sentences: Pounding through dusty hallways…
The sound of a keyboard at work joins the patter of the fishtank filter.
3. Watching
The squirrel was hesitant to approach the bucket, gray nose quivering. It skittered in staccato bursts: one moment, pressed on the grassy yard, the following, blending in with the edge of the sidewalk, the next, at the bucket, peering at the food inside.
Standing there, its front paws on the pail and its cotton-candy tail twitching behind, it watched me, dark eyes innocently afraid, and it minced broken Cheez-its into flakes on its snowy chest. I watched the creature silently and without movement, so I wouldn’t scare it away when I’d spent so long tempting it here.
Sole Magazine