Escaping death

Today morning I dug a grave.

Reluctantly. In my frontyard.

A tiny one. 

For the squirrel.

Who lay motionless.

In the balcony, near the door.

Eyes open. Staring a deep meaningful look. Unblinking.

The one which tugs at your heart. Very hard. So hard that it scratches your soul.

I take a deep breath. 

Now comes the difficult part. 

Collecting the body. And burial. 

I look for help. None was available.

I wear my mask. It will not protect me from the squirrel. And it will not protect the squirrel from me. But it may protect me from myself.

I take a deep breath again and hold it. 

I make my approach like a pilot steering a jumbojet on a precarious runway. With a garden spade. 

(The same with which I dug the grave). 

It's inadequate and inappropriate.

I clumsily touch the tiny squirrel's body with the spade. 

It shivers. And is roused! From perhaps a deep slumber!

My hands shake and heart gallops at the sudden movement. 

The squirrel dodges the spade and makes its escape. But not before casting a swift accusatory look with its tiny eyes. That even my mask cannot protect me against.