The Fox

On migraines, a barking dog, and the messenger I didn’t let in.

The spots appeared around two o’clock Friday afternoon. The nausea followed by four. I hadn’t had a migraine of that magnitude in years. It felt like every circuit in my head had tripped at once, and I was laid up on the couch, YouTube podcasts about the state of our country humming in the background, bouncing me between the pain in my head and the pain in the world.

I fell asleep that way.

At two in the morning, the dog began barking maniacally. I lay there, rocking, telling myself it was probably just a squirrel. It was fine. It was fine. My fifteen-year-old, woken by the racket, came padding down the stairs and collected her up into his room.

Imagine my surprise Saturday morning when, letting the dog out the sliding glass doors, I found fox poop on the deck.

Oh, how I wished I had summoned the will to walk back to the door and flip on the light. Would I have seen that red fox glaring at me? It’s such a small thing, but I grieved over the missed chance to see one so close.

Maybe I grieved it because I feel so disconnected right now from nature and my yard and all the plants teeming with promise. Maybe I grieved it because I miss the days when all four of my sons would have sat around the kitchen table dissecting it and telling the story back to each other. Maybe I grieved it because the universe sent me a messenger and a message, and I was too stubborn to receive it.

Sometimes I can be so dense.