Squirrel: on childhood

SQUIRREL

I was a child and my parents replaced me with fog. The fog took my bedroom. My favourite breakfast cereal. The new bike. The fog got grandma’s cookies.

Then the fog grew up, began to shave and got a job. Then it got old. My parents got old, too. When they died, the fog couldn’t get up off the sofa but watched TV all day.

After five days, I opened the window and the wind blew the fog away.

I went inside. I chewed up insulation like a squirrel.




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Image: portrait of my mother carrying my brother