In the cold November rain, a squirrel sought shelter amongst our evergreen palm trees. In the hands of nature, it was safe. From the rain, from the cold. From everything that would steal it's soul.
I remember breaking down into tears and trying to find sanity in the wide, blue sky. I could see the bowers of the trees and all I wanted to do was find my safe place, somewhere amongst the green. Maybe, I could send down roots and bind myself to the soil. But I am a vagrant. I am a dreamer. And I tend to run towards my dreams, even if I am hopeless. So, I pulled back my roots, tore myself from my safe places and ran. And ran. And just kept on running.
All this while, the squirrel jumped to and fro, it's little body swaying with the wind and turning to it's little joys. The kind that's hardly found in our monotonous life.
As life happened, I grew. And I grew with a restless spirit. The kind that lingered for some time and then spirited away. I was running even then but this time, I was running from myself.
One bright day, with the wind blowing hope towards the wrong directions, the squirrel stopped chattering. It was too quiet and yet, the wind howled a dead man's song.
I looked into the well. the old one, with moss on it's worn bricks and creepers sending out their sprouts in and around. I wanted to fall like the leaves but autumn was long over. Spring was due. I couldn't fall then. I couldn't fall at all.
There lay the squirrel. In it's watery grave. I wondered if it looked at the trees as it fell. I wondered if a lone leaf fell with it. It must have been a beautiful fall. It must have been a bitter sweet end. The trees must have held out their arms calling their sweet child back.
But dead things are often pretty. So is Death!
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