Crocus time has arrived. In the past week, the leaves -- yellow-green splinters -- have jabbed up through the snow remnants and the old mulch and the dead lawn grass. Now, the blossoms have arrived. Soon, above the floor of the woods out back and the English ivy along the gravel driveway, lavender clouds will spread like a thin fog above a pasture, a million flowers blending into the first cheery breath of spring.
Just after sunrise, with the low light slanting above the ground and igniting the crocuses on which it fell, Thelma and I went up the driveway for our first walk on a day that promises some springtime warmth and a perfectly blue sky. At the street, we turned toward the river. Ahead not 100 feet was a gray lump on the pavement. My first thought was: dead cat.
We had left Zippy shut in at home with Monica because I didn't want him to follow us and risk the fate of the animal ahead of us.
Upon closer inspection, I saw this was an oppossum. Maybe he was only playing dead.
Thelma approached the form with caution and sniffed. The palms of the little, white rear paws -- with their opposing thumbs -- faced the sky, along with the little animal's furry belly. It was pretty clear his "death", probably practiced many times before and certainly ingrained in his genetic code, was, this time, not a fake.
And I thought: Some folks really are born victims, no matter what the self-help people say. A reminder to avoid judging others.