What Remains of Wild

The spinach sizzled in the pan, reduced to something unrecognizable, much like the last ten years of my life. Outside the kitchen window, a fox trotted across the yard — burnt orange against the February gray, impossible and beautiful.

My iphone buzzed against the counter.

From: Sarah

You'll never believe who I saw today.

Sarah. The friend who understood me before I became this person who agonizes over fiber intake and mortgage rates. The friend who once drove us to Mexico at 3 AM because the night felt too short.

The dog, Barnaby, nosed my hand. Good old Barnaby, whose love was uncomplicated, whose needs were simple: food, walks, the occasional belly rub. Sometimes I envied him. Sometimes I hated him a little for his easy contentment.

The fox paused at the garden gate, looked straight at me through the glass. Its eyes held something ancient and knowing. Then it was gone, vanished into the neighbor's yew hedge.

I turned off the stove. The spinach was overcooked now.

The phone buzzed again.

It was Marcus. He's getting divorced.

Marcus. The name hit me like a wave. The before-time, the wild-time, the time when anything was possible and everything was broken. Before David, before this house with its sensible appliances and its scheduled happiness.

The fox had been real. I had seen it. But it was gone now, and so was that version of me — the one who might have said yes to Mexico, who might have chosen differently at every crossroad.

David would be home in an hour. We would eat the overcooked spinach and talk about his day and everything would be fine. Everything was fine.

I picked up the phone and typed:

What are you thinking?

Then I deleted it. Typed:

I don't know if I can see him.

Deleted again.

The fox returned. Standing at the garden gate, waiting, as if the world had not already moved on.

Tell him I'm at the old place on Saturday.

I pressed send. The spinach was ruined. Barnaby wagged his tail, faithful and oblivious. Outside, the fox melted into the darkness, and I finally understood: some things you don't get to keep. Some things you only get to remember.