newsom raze one day, about a year and a half ago, this grey squirrel just showed up in the park and started following us. she was fearless. and she had the most amazing face. she looked wise, but not so wise that she'd lost her sense of wonder. i had "ys" by joanna_newsom in the car that morning. before i knew she was a female squirrel, i thought she looked like a newsom. so i started calling her that. the name stuck. if i had to pick a favourite out of all the squirrels who have become my park friends, i'd choose her. sometimes i'll hear a little rustling sound and i'll turn around to find her standing behind me, hoping for a snack. sometimes i'll call her name if i don't see her. if she's close enough to hear me, she'll come running. more than once, a stranger has turned to me and my dad and said, "you guys know you've got a squirrel following you?" it's always her. she never makes a sound to let us know she's there. she's content to wait until we notice her. a few days before christmas, when there wasn't any snow on the ground yet, she followed us for almost the entire length of the park. twice. she does this thing sometimes where she'll bury a bunch of nuts as fast as she can and then she'll catch up with us again to see if she can get some more. that day, she ran after us with a peanut in her mouth for about half the length of the path that loops through the park. she kept to the grass so she could get a more panoramic view of where we were and where we were going. once she found a good place to stash that nut, she found us on the opposite side of the park from where she usually hangs out. she found us again before we made it to the parking lot. she was relentless. and hilarious. when it was our last time around, instead of walking through the parking lot and turning right the way we always do, we cut through the path to get to one of the exits a little quicker. we were going to miss newsom. the last i saw of her, she was around the playground. we were nowhere near that spot. i looked over my shoulder. just in case. she wasn't tailing us. "i guess no one's going to enjoy those last five or six peanuts in the bag," i said. when we were about ten steps from the gate that would spit us out onto the street where we parked the car, newsom intercepted us. she saw where we were going and ran the other way so she could head us off before we left. she knows our route so well, and her understanding of the park's geometry is so complete, she knew just where to go and when she needed to get there to catch us one last time. some days, when the weather's kind enough not to murder my hands, i bring my camera with me. she lets me get so close, sometimes the lens is almost touching her. i'm not a professional photographer, but i've been able to capture some incredible pictures because of how much she trusts me. most of the other squirrels run back onto the grass to eat once we've thrown them some nuts. not newsom. she'll eat right at our feet. if she sees another person or a dog coming, she'll back off. as soon as they're gone, she'll come back and hang out with us some more. i had a dream about her last week. she was in my bedroom. the tv was on, but we never looked at what was on the screen. she let me pet her. in the ultimate gesture of trust, she gave me her stomach to touch. it was soft as fleece. she smiled and put her head on my shoulder. she spoke to me. her lips didn't move, but i heard a woman's voice. i felt it too. she said, "i've come to understand the only thing that really matters is being with the people you care about and letting them know how much they mean to you." then she closed her eyes and died. i knew she was gone when i looked at a digital watch i've owned almost as long as i've been alive and saw nothing but zeroes. time stopped when she did. i started laughing and crying at the same time, with her little head still on my shoulder. i thought about how special she was and how lucky i was to know her. for the first time, i saw what was on the tv screen. people standing on beaches, answering inane questions. nothing they said was funny, or interesting, or anything. it was all so superficial and meaningless. i turned the tv off. i watched the screen go dark, but not so dark that all the light left me. there are so many grey squirrels in the park now, i don't have names for them all. a lot of them are almost as brave as newsom. some of them even look a little like her. but i always know her by her tail. it's the most beautiful i've ever seen on any animal. two days ago, i watched her eat a hazelnut an inch away from my left foot. "don't you be going anywhere," i said. she made that happy sighing sound she makes sometimes when she's eating. her eyes were wide open. mine were too. 220214 ... raze this was the afternoon i was going to say, "i met you two years ago today, you little monkey." it's hard to feel like celebrating when an anniversary becomes a headstone. i miss singing your name to you. i didn't need any other words. you were a song all on your own. i keep looking over my shoulder and expecting to see you just a few steps behind me. i miss you. i always will. 221029 ... raze i left out the part of the dream where you grew until you were almost as big as me. death revealed your true size. i carried you through a series of rooms, hoping to find someone who could tell me what went wrong. no one told me anything i wanted to know. i still call out your name when i walk past the places you used to be. i know it won't bring you back. but it comforts me to feel those slender syllables dancing through the air. 230403 ... raze you were nursing in the fall two years ago. the signs were there for me to see. i missed them somehow. i wonder how many of your children i've loved without ever knowing they were yours. 230621 ... raze now i mark the years since i lost you instead of the years since i met you. 231008 ... raze i wore you on my chest today. 231113 what's it to you? who go blather from