Marsh Creek Grievers

by April DeOliveira
(this is part II. Read Marsh Creek Grievers from the beginning.)

Squirrel Daycare

The thing about working in a squirrel daycare is the squirrels refuse to lay down for naptime.

Well, technically that’s not true. I don’t work here. I’m a volunteer—or participant, really—at Grief Recovery Squirrel Daycare for the Gifted. Yes, I know that’s a mouthful. Yes, I know the name doesn’t make sense. And to be clear, it’s not the grieving who are gifted. It’s the squirrels. And to be even clearer, it’s not the gifted squirrels who are grieving. It’s the residents of Marsh Creek.

When, a few weeks ago, my mom came to me and nearly begged I apply to Grief Recovery Squirrel Daycare for the Gifted, I laughed. Are you serious, I said as a statement rather than a question. I had driven past that place so many times on my way into town. And so many times I had looked at it with suspicion and thought, surely that doesn’t help people, not really. Like those church Celebrate Recovery or Grief Support programs. Just another one of those quick fix, put a bandage over a gaping wound kind of programs.

Please, just give it a try, she said through tears. I want my son back.

I’m right here, I growled. I hate it when people say stuff like that. As if what my grief has done to me is actually me trying to hurt them.

You know what I mean. You’re not yourself. You haven’t been for a long time.

Though I was angry, I knew she wasn’t wrong. It had been two years since my wife and daughter died. Two years later, I still couldn’t move on in my life, not even after those first six months of grief had caused me to lose my house and move in with my mom. I still couldn’t return to work. I still couldn’t get out of bed until 2 p.m. I still couldn’t brush the coffee off my teeth or wash the days-worth of grease and sweat and dust off my body. I still couldn’t bike or woodwork or read. All I could do was sleep and watch Megamind over and over.

No, Mom, I said, beginning to cry, which I do all the time now. I can’t. Everything is too overwhelming already. Everyday life is too much.

I know, honey. I know. That’s why I think this would be good for you. You need help. And I’ve heard really good things about this program from others in the community. People who have experienced the absolute worst things in their lives and are now doing better as a result. I just really think this could help you too.

I sighed and studied my mom’s tear-filled brown eyes. The dark circles. The crinkles that formed paths around and between her eyes. Signs of a life spent loving and worrying and lamenting.

Will you at least meet with a representative and see what they do? You don’t have to agree to it. Just talk with someone about it.

I reached for my face, rubbing at the stubble along my chin and left cheek. I sighed again. Sure, Mom. I’ll do it.

Now, I curse my empathetic mother under my breath as I place Photographic Memory Squirrel onto his nap cot, tucking the miniature blanket under him knowing full well he’ll sit up the moment I’m done and take off running through the Play Area and the Art Station. I let go and sure enough he runs away like I just clipped the tip of his tail with the craft scissors.

I don’t know why she thought this was a good idea.

Photographic Memory Squirrel comes to a halt in the Art Station and looks in my direction. Staring me down, he blinks once before printing a picture from his mouth. He drops a four by six on the floor and starts running again, this time to the Music Lab. I huff as I walk to the Art Station in the middle of the room and pick up the picture.

I run my thumb along the smooth, white edges of the Polaroid-like picture as the image comes into focus.

Shivers ripple down my spine. I don’t recognize myself. The sullen face, prematurely aged and worn. The dull eyes with droopy lids. The unkempt hair and frail, neglected body. I don’t know who this man is.

You’ll feel better in time, Telepathic Squirrel says inside my head. I hate it when he does that. I rotate toward the Sleep Place to glare at him. He’s sitting up on his nap cot, his blankets a heap on the floor, except for the one he’s wearing as a poofy, oversized scarf. It looks like tires stacked around his neck. Will you get out of my head? I think-shout at him.

Don’t shoot the Messenger, he says. You’ll know yourself again.  










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