The dead flying fox

Riding home after work is an unremarkable affair. Today the cumulonimbus were erupting as usual off the coast, flushing hot pink by the sun. Rounding the corner just before home I saw what I thought was a cowling from a defaced car, all mangled and forgotten by the kerbside. It was only when I approached it closer – in the increasing darkness – I made out it was the body of a flying fox. Long dead – just as forgotten, just as mangled. Its ginger brown fur was groomed to a gloss, its eyes staring deeply into the night, fast oncoming. I often think that’s the irony of life – as brilliant as we think our lives to be – we all end up in the same place. Do bats dream too of life after death? What would heaven look like for them? I couldn’t help but feel sad for this furry little creature I glided past. How pet-like their little snout is, their twitchy ears and soft downy fur beckoning for a loving scratch.

“This would be somebody’s pet in another universe. While I may curse their arrival every night when they cackle like scheming witches and shit all over my car, I felt the need for a dignified interment. ”

I dug a hole underneath my newly planted liquidambar. The soil beneath the mulch was sumptuously warm and squirming in all directions. I have left it for the tree to embrace and braid this little guy, into their roots, trunk and leaves – part gift, part invocation. It catches up with us all in the end – we are but a party for worms and a million thankful microbes.