cheryl raze i hadn't seen her in a year. i heard she'd been in a car accident. it sounded like she was in bad shape. i wasn't sure if it was her at first. but i thought the black lab looked familiar. i was right. her hair was shorter. i asked about her backyard visitor. i should have asked what she named her. she said she runs up her son's leg to say hello. she comes to the kitchen window when she's hungry. if cheryl isn't there, she scales the house and knocks on her bedroom window. like a little person. people tell her maybe it isn't the same squirrel she sees all the time. maybe she's imagining a bond that doesn't exist. "i know her," she said. "i know her markings." she said she hasn't seen her in a few weeks now. she's worried about her. i told her we're right in the heart of breeding season. she's probably busy rearing her kits. "she might bring her babies to meet you once their eyes are open," i said, and her whole face lit up. 230506 ... raze she told me her dog always warns her when there's a skunk around. he's never been sprayed. somehow he still senses the danger. there are more squirrels who come to see her now. one day she ran out of nuts, so she mixed some honey nut cheerios with almond butter. a delighted friend ended up caked with what he couldn't eat. "you might not want to do that again, mom," her son said. "i think he might like it too much." it was her birthday on the ninth. she's eleven years older than i'll be on wednesday. i would have guessed younger. i wrote my email address on a green square of paper pulled from this box of stationary i've had forever. i wanted to give it to her. every time i have it with me, she isn't in the park. and it's never in my pocket when she's around. it's become a bit of a running_joke between us. instead of giving her mine, today i asked for hers and committed it to memory. i know how to reach her now. i'll send her some pictures. maybe she'll send me some too. 230812 what's it to you? who go blather from