Not the possum in the story. And yes, I know it is opossum, but I didn’t feel like buying a vowel.
Last night, the last 100 yards before my subdivision entrance was like driving through a petting zoo. First there were four does standing on the side of the road munching on grass. I used the Jedi Mind Trick on them (You don’t want to die today. I don’t want to die to day) to keep them from running out in front of me. It worked.
Then there was Mr. Possum. When I first saw him I thought, “He’s mighty big for a dead possum.” Then I realized he was alive and the middle of the road, munching on something dead. “Oh the irony,” I thought. Add to it the freakiness of actually seeing a live possum. I can count on one hand the number of alive possums I’ve seen in the middle of the road in my life.
I slowed down. (I was feeling charitable — I’ve nearly been squished a couple of times this year, so I wanted to pay my blessing forward.) Mr. Possum reacted to my car and started to run right under my wheel. I now know why so many of his kind don’t make it to the other side of the road.
I stopped. He stopped. And then he turned around and ran back into the woods to safety.
I felt a little relieved when I finally got home. I didn’t really feel like taking a life — even if it was a not-very bright possum.
This morning, I went on a run up the same road. It was dark and I once again saw something in the middle of the road. And yes, it was Mr. Possum once again. But this time, Mr. Possum was dead as a sack of rocks. It seems that I had just delayed the inevitable. I saluted my friend and moved on, careful not to meet a car and suffer his fate. And then I came to this conclusion:
The road to my house is paved with good intentions and dead possums.