The storm toppled my squirrel. Thoira, my next-door neighbor, gave me the little statue before she moved away 14 years ago. It loyally guarded her back step and I was proud to carry on the tradition. It almost feels like a piece of her is still here and my soul is warmed when I think of her. Of us. Of what once was.
I was a new mom and Thoira was well into retirement. We were an unlikely pair. She was a depression baby and I was an idealistic hippy. She lectured me on how often to feed my newborn; I chided her for smoking too much. Yet, we always found laughter and common ground as we sat around her orange Formica kitchen table. Thoira would be thrilled that her 60’s chic style is all the rage these days.
Seeing the fallen squirrel made me wonder if it was a little message that she was thinking of me, too, and snippets of the past came back to me. Like the time she proclaimed my daughter, Gianna, would always be Gigi to her. And how she would hop onto my husband’s motorcycle for a lift down the driveway. My memories of Thoira are no less concrete than that crazy squirrel on my back step.
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