Day 39
When I was fourteen years old, I saw a dying squirrel in my backyard. I don't know why she was dying. No obvious injuries, no predator animals nearby. Writing that out, now I wonder how I even knew she was dying. Maybe I'm just looking back and realizing she must have been dying, since she was dead a few minutes later. Or maybe dying is a state that anyone can recognize.
Anyway. She died and I wrapped her up in a t-shirt from my Mathlympics club that I paid $8 of my mom's money for and buried her in the backyard, next to a tree. I thought to myself that this was a very meaningful and poignant thing to do, and I was looking forward to sharing the anecdote with somebody, many years from then, in a private moment. It would foster a kind of intimacy, the kind that stories like this always seem to foster in movies and books.
Lunch was Roberta.
Dinner was composed of three plates of pasta:
I never did share that story with anyone, but I hope you all got something out of it, though what I'm not sure.
A special thanks to my dining companion, Nick!
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