when possums don’t bite.

I talked to a friend for a long time tonight. We were under a dark and star-studded sky. A September sky, not hot at all; because August and all her summery ways have packed up her things and moved down south, just like she does every year. And at least she does it, you know. I don’t have time for a lot of words anymore. I’d rather not hear of August talking incessantly about Florida and how good it will feel on her joints and then promptly doing nothing about it. So, that’s right, August, you go on and do what you say you will do and we’ll see you next year.

Same time, same place.

But, about an hour into our conversation, a possum wandered up behind us. And it was dark, you know, where my friend and I were sitting–and there was the sinister sounds of leaves and twigs breaking behind me, which, as we all know, is the stuff of horror films. So I grabbed his arm, scared. My friend’s arm, that is; I didn’t grab the possum’s arm. I tend not to grab the arm of the thing that so terrifies me–or at least, I try not to.

But I grabbed his arm and then he said, “It’s a possum,” and we both laughed as I let go, a bit embarrassed that I had felt the need to grab his arm in the first place. And then I asked, “Do possums, you know, do anything to people?”

“No,” he said, “they’re fine.”

And I was good with fine.

“Except for their razor sharp teeth,” he ammended.

And I was not as good with razor sharp teeth.

But then I leaned my hand onto the ground and suddenly felt a sharp bite between my fingers; I looked down and flicked the ant off me and was suddenly grateful. Cause see, it could have been much worse. There was a possum lurking nearby, after all.

And if given the choice between a bite from a razor sharp toothed possum and an itty bitty ant, I’d choose the latter every time.

So life really worked out well for me tonight; I mean, we were in complete agreement. And I now know without a doubt that this kind of thing does not always happen.