Now some people, faced with a possum, would run screaming into the driveway. But I’m made of sterner stuff, and this was a small one: not a baby, possibly middle-school aged, and it wasn’t moving. I’d looked down from the table where I was paying bills to a chair next to me, where the stamps were lying. Beside them, conjured out of thin air, was a small, silent, terrified-seeming animal staring right at me…
“Whenever the familiar theme music of Molly Fisk’s weekly radio essay starts up, many of us in this town, for a few minutes, stop whatever we’re doing and listen. About gardening or livestock, about the change of seasons or a birth or a death or just the visit of a metaphysical shiver, Molly has always noticed something in our lives that none of us may have thought about, and she attaches a little warmth or consolation, a little poignancy, certainly a little mirth, maybe a little awe.” Louis B. Jones
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