Bicentennial Summer

“Shh. Stay still,” I whispered.

Dad and the girls fell silent, watching as the squirrel took a few tentative steps toward my outstretched palm. Maybe it was hunger, or maybe it was just curiosity, but after a moment of hesitation, it made its choice—it walked right onto my hand and grabbed the cracker.

I could barely believe it.

Its scratchy little claws startled me, and I almost jerked my hand away on instinct, but I held still. That was the thing about trust—you had to stay steady, even when it felt unnatural. The squirrel sat back on its haunches, grasping the tiny speck of food with its dainty hands, nibbling away like it had always belonged there.

With my free hand, I rummaged in my pocket, searching for more. Another crumb, another offering. That’s how it always worked—one step at a time, one small gesture at a time.

I thought about Dad. The way he could flash a grin, say the right thing, and suddenly, I wanted to believe him again. I wondered if I was like this squirrel, too hungry for scraps to see the bigger picture. After it had its fill, the squirrel turned tail and scurried off, vanishing into the trees. It didn’t look back.

I exhaled, only just realizing I’d been holding my breath. Wow. Another Journal of Life entry there.

“Holy cow, Mare. That was neat.” Dad smiled and winked at me, and I smiled right back as if nothing was amiss.