The fox
I’m not out of breath as I thought I’d be, going all the way uphill until the edge of the forest. Twirls of vapor come out of my nostrils almost sluggish, controlled.
The fox is as straight as can be, snout lifted, on a mount covered by dry leaves. They’re of a scintillating grey, maybe because of the weak and pale sunrays, or the silver birch trees standing naked, upright like soldiers, proud in their winter nudity. It should be so much warmer by now, no wonder the foxes are out.
I don’t know what force drew me to come after this one. It waited for me, as if summoning me up, and the path was so familiar that I followed instinctively.
I’m watching it and it has lifted one of its paws, like a puppy, trained to shake hands. The paw is white. I look up instantly and the fox is watching too, fixing me with its gaze. My heart starts pounding in my chest, as if I’m supposed to understand something crucial. What does it want from me? My feet float me closer — I’m stunned at the lack of ruffling through all those leaves.
Maybe it’s pregnant I think, or maybe it’s beckoning me to save its little ones trapped in a hole somewhere. Then I discover it’s male.
I’m so close I can look it in the eyes. And there’s a whimper. Like a sigh filled with pain and regret. A sigh I well remember. The eyes are grey. My grandfather’s eyes.
The dripping sound shakes me, and I realise I can no longer see, my tears form faster than they roll. I wipe my eyes and sniffle, unwilling to understand. I shake my head and the fox is gone.
The mount is there, at my feet. I clear it of leaves and there’s moss. I tap it, caress it, smell it. The jolt of a memory strikes like lightening: it’s the rock.
My grandfather used to take me “fox hunting”, and here, on this rock, I scribbled for the first time, with a smaller sharper rock, my first signature. I remember my 5th birthday was in a month. My 45th birthday is in a month.
I collapse in sobs and stroke the rock and kiss it. I can’t take it with me, because it’s big, but I can carry the memory. I want to snap a picture, but my hand doesn’t move. It’s not an image to trivialize by mixing it with the other thousands, I won’t forget again.
If you enjoyed this, please check out some of my other short stories:
Copyright © 2011–2018 by Georgiana Petec. All rights reserved.
