Squirrel Breakfasts Alone

I vow to together, apart.

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Another quiet morning. I sit with my coffee and look through the window. Outside I see Squirrel sitting on her balcony, thoughtfully chewing on something. I’m a little too far away to see what that something is.

Also, coffee steam fogged the window.

The view is soon clear.

Squirrel and I have breakfasted together - yet alone, for some time.

It’s a pleasant time together, yet apart.

“Together, yet apart” - that sounds like a pop-psychology strategy for calming the entangled hormones of fledgling couples trying to find a way to live together - or maybe for any bodies trying to live together.

Together, yet apart has worked out well for myself and my good friend squirrel. I say friend though we’ve never formerly met. It seems as though I’m in a restaurant sitting at a window seat, and Squirrel is outdoors in a street café, across the street.

We know each other on sight, yet don’t know each other at all. It might seem appropriate to nod greeting each morning, but Squirrel doesn’t nod.

I understand. It’s really not necessary.

We’re not alone.

Most of the animals in the yard know each other.

They make nod-like recognition without a nod between them, they just know.

A glance, a gesture, a studied indifference, all is well – good morning. They like people riding to work on the same bus, week after week, year after year - strangers who’ve known each other for years.

And, aren’t we all.

Other than the nastiness of an occasional predator, getting along seems easily done. Just be nice and mind your own business. Much like the imperative taught in kindergarten - learn how to pay nice together.

The nicest way to play well together, is to play a little apart.

Squirrel and I have breakfasted together - yet alone, for some time.

It’s an easy way for any bodies trying to live together.

By K. L. Shipley

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