Dash hovers, vigilant, around the oak trees, trying to out-maneuver a squirrel that’s tormenting her. Round and round they go, at dizzying speed.
She endures this daily torture with dedicated persistence. She never tires of the skirmishes. Never seems defeated by the squirrel’s superior agility and skill. She perseveres because this is her job; she will not be deterred.
I walk ahead in the Sunday silence. Breathe deeply and lift my face to the sun. Everything is so right, out of habit.
And then in the midst of this tiny satisfaction, a tiny, persistent sadness appears. What am I to do? What am I to be? . . . Am I ever to find relief from this?
Drink a glass of wine: relief. Watch a movie: relief. Call a friend: relief. But tiny relief. Nothing permanent or significant. The questions ever present. Agile tormentors.
And me, I too search the branches of trees, hoping to get a glimpse of a bushy tail.