all for a skull
- Melinda
- Jul 11
- 11 min read
Updated: Jul 11
how i wish
The day started out like any other, with an early-morning message from my eldest. She wanted to let me know that she'd be swinging by the house on her way in to work to drop us off a dead opossum. Probably not a typical message for most, but pretty standard fare around here. We’ve been gifted countless dead animals over the years, so this was no huge surprise; in fact, this is the second opossum she’s dropped on my doorstep this summer alone.
The reason for that is actually two-fold. My youngest—an avid birder and photographer—has used the bodies to lure in the vultures on many occasions. My middle—a wildly talented artist and creator—offers their bodies back to the earth, taking their skulls and honoring them through her artwork. (And yes, we are in fact an odd and eccentric bunch.) Each and every time we receive a roadkill animal, I’m in absolute awe of how quickly Mother Nature reclaims them. With the help of the sultry summer sun, a skeleton and some hair are all that remain in a matter of mere days. How I wish my body could be so efficiently put to the same good use and purpose when my days here are finally done.
My first surprising thought upon seeing this possum when she arrived was that it needed Reiki. I had already suited up for a morning of outside work, however, and so decided to do it later when I had more focus to spare. Besides, the poor critter was definitely dead; I figured the need for Reiki shouldn’t be so pressing that it couldn’t wait a couple more hours.
Before she left, my girl and I stood under the early morning sun and she told me how she happened upon this particular opossum while driving home with her girlfriend from a lecture the night before. It had been hit by a car but was still alive when they stopped. Dragging her severely injured back-end, she was struggling to get across the road. Rushing into action, they wrapped her in a blanket before scooping her up and placing her in a bin. It was then that they spotted a baby crushed on the road and another living one nearby. This possum was a mama.
The desperate reaching out to animal rehabs began as soon as they got home, but it was late and no one was around to answer their calls. The next time they checked on mama possum, her body was still. The injuries she'd sustained had been too great and she had died—a sad reality, but one which then led her to my doorstep. Knowing how quickly bodies decompose in the heat of the summer sun, I placed her in the shade as I bid my daughter goodbye, vowing to return.
impossibly tiny
It was early afternoon when I quietly wrapped mama possum in Reiki and sent her all my love. While doing so, I felt an overwhelming surge of despair rising from her. It isn’t unusual for me to receive emotions while doing Reiki, and I can often help the individual to process the heavy and negative emotions before releasing them. This deep grief was incredibly heartbreaking though. Why such profound despair? Did it have to do with the babies she’d been carrying? I received the message, helped her to process the heaviness, and decided to go outside and take a closer look at her as soon as I'd finished her Reiki.
Lifting her from the bin, I noticed two more babies crushed to her belly. Gently pulling open her pouch, I found several more. One by one, I placed them together—six in all. Reaching for the last, I stopped cold when I heard my daughter say in breathless horror: Oh my god. That one’s still alive.
Frozen, we stared in shock at this teeny-tiny pink one still attached to the nipple. Not only was it alive, but vibrantly and enthusiastically so. It had been fourteen hours since its mama had died and it showed no signs of weakening. Its front feet moved continuously, its minuscule claws scratching at my hand. Its mouth suckled relentlessly, clenched to a nipple that could no longer sustain life. An impossibly tiny tail, impossibly tiny toes, impossibly tiny veins running though them all, and an impossibly tiny heart that still beat furiously.
In that moment, I understood the despair. It was for this baby. This living baby that had no chance of survival. It was only about a week old, with no eyes, no ears. Its death was an absolute guarantee. While I knew I couldn’t help it to survive, I also knew there was one thing I could do. Silently connecting with mama possum, I made a solemn promise to her that I would love and protect her baby until he was able to join. I reassured her that he was safe with me.
rocking, singing & waiting
The baby refused to let go of her nipple and fearful of crushing his little skull, I was forced to snip the nipple off. He continued to suck on it like a little pacifier until his last breath; I can only hope it brought him some measure of maternal comfort. While my daughter made him a little resting box with soft ferns and clovers, I held his squirming body in my hands. Settling into what I knew might be a long day, I made my way across the yard to my new favorite spot.
My girls and I are currently in the process of transforming our property into a native wildlife habitat. Pulling overwhelming amounts of invasive plants and replacing them with native species, we’ve become willing stewards of our land. We’ve made remarkable and surprising progress since March and the wild abundance of birds has been our daily reward. Along the way, I placed a wooden glider underneath a long-established native blueberry bush in one of the areas we cleared, and it’s become my favorite place to sit and watch the wildlife. It was here that I took my little charge, and here we would spend the next many hours. Rocking, singing, and waiting.
I became part of the landscape, and the critters paid me no mind. Squirrels chased each other through the tall grasses. Birds bathed, birds sang, birds flew, and birds feasted. At one point, an aggressive red squirrel came racing towards me, screaming his fool head off in an attempt to scare me away from what was clearly his blueberry bush. Long minutes passed while he cursed me loudly until, eventually, falling silent. Settling himself on a branch at eye level with me and just several feet away, we watched each other curiously. I smiled at him frequently, calling a truce, before he finally left me to my work. Thankfully, his departure was much quieter than his arrival had been. Glancing up, another squirrel—a gray one this time—slept on the branch above me. Its legs hanging on either side of the limb, snoozing away the hot summer’s day. Those with lives still left to live were everywhere I looked.
i'm a slow learner
At one point in the afternoon, I decided to sing to this wee little possum, pulling up a song I'd sung on repeat to my girls when they were young. I’ve been told my singing is quite terrible, but babies and animals never seem to agree. While I sang the melancholy verses to Puff the Magic Dragon, the little one stilled in my hands, curled up and sleeping peacefully. This only happened twice while I held him, and both times while I sang; other than that, his little paws were in constant motion. My off-key singing also lulled to sleep our thirteen-year-old hen, Mary Todd, who watched me curiously from her perch. Squirrels paused in their pursuit of each other to listen. Our resident groundhog, Jemomma, ambled by to see what I was up to. And all the while, I held my tiny friend. Continually wrapping him in a blanket of Reiki and love, we waited for his death together.
I passed the sultry day in somewhat of a meditative state, wondering at the how and why of this little critter ending up nestled in my particular hands. Occasionally, I could feel my hands come alive with Reiki as he drew from me what he needed. I’ve been asking my Spirit Guide for guidance lately, a new path beckons, and I felt intuitively that this moment had meaning. The problem is that I often suck at interpretation. If meaning comes, it’s often a slow process and I can only imagine my Spirit Guide’s frustration at what is probably devastatingly obvious. I tried not to scramble for meaning that day and instead kept my mind open, letting it wander. Traveling back to my past, I thought of all the many critters I’d held in much the same way.
living's the hard part
I’m not afraid of death; I never have been, for as far back as I can remember. Living is the excruciatingly hard and courageous part; dying is the reward. I think there’s a part of me that’s never forgotten where we come from and so going Home holds no fear. In fact, during the terrifically painful parts of my existence, reminding myself that I would one day wake from this dream/nightmare is the only thing that kept me hanging on.
Couple the comfort of this inner knowing with the fact that I grew up on a small farm where death was often present, and I’ve always felt it to be a natural part of life. Wrapped in mystery, sure, but ever present just the same. Sometimes its arrival is shocking, sometimes heartbreaking, other times expected, still others an enormous relief. When my daughters were growing up, I intentionally filled their lives with animal companions of all kinds as well, fully appreciating the lessons they had taught me and wishing the same experiences for my girls. Through those years, I felt increasingly drawn to sit with our many, many pets as they took their last breaths. Sometimes I would sit with them in my arms for hours, others times only minutes. But as they were letting go, we were almost always drawn to each other.
I’ve come to recognize the signs of departure. A shift in breathing and an arching of the back that I personally believe is the soul making its final exit. Each death process proceeds in its own way, but always ends the same. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I do have questions. Do we have a choice in the matter? Is our time predetermined, or do we get to choose? Wrestling with these questions for many years, one death stands out to me, hinting that we have do have a choice. After all, free will seems to promise that, doesn’t it?
a farewell bonfire
Our elderly cat, Oscar, had been born on my bed and died in my arms. In her last days, the dementia increased and she wandered our property aimlessly in a not-quite-there state. One afternoon, I could tell that her time was near and tasked my girls with starting a bonfire. I decided I’d sit beside it with her until she left. As soon as I gathered her in my arms, she calmed down and slipped into an unconscious state out there with the smell of woodsmoke in the air and the sound of crickets all around.
We sat there for hours on this beautiful summer’s night. A couple of times I felt her breathing change and waited for her last breath and the tell-tale arch. Seeming to change her mind each time, she lingered on. I felt as though she was enjoying the evening—our last together—perhaps a little too much. She seemed in no hurry to get Home. The hours passed and as we crept closer to a new day, I knew I needed to lay her down. My body was weary, chilled, aching, and sleep called. Torn, I desperately didn’t want to leave her alone to die. I felt she wanted me there, but I also knew this could potentially go on for days.
Suddenly, surprising even myself, I gently shook her still body. Oscar, I said firmly, you need to let go. Right now. I don’t want to leave you alone, please, please don’t make me do that. I need you to move on. You’re safe. If you want me here with you, then it’s time.
I spoke it aloud out there under the stars. My girls silently watched me, and we all silently watched Oscar. What would she do? Hearing is the last sense to go in the dying, and so we waited for her to make a choice—if she was able. Miraculously, only minutes later, her breathing changed. Incredulously, we all watched as she took her final breath, her body arching as her spirit left. We had just witnessed something truly remarkable: did we have a choice in our time of death? That experience said yes. It has certainly been something to ponder.
minus weeks old
Thinking of Oscar, I wondered what this little possum was holding onto. We had no history together. He had nothing but the comfort of my warm hands and the peace of nature surrounding him. How long would he fight to hang on? Rocking, rocking, rocking, we continued to pass the day together while I wondered how this would all play out. Besides the obvious, of course.
Laying him in his little fern bed that evening, I assumed he couldn’t possibly survive the night. How much fight could a one-week-old baby have in it? And considering that opossums are marsupials, this baby was technically minus weeks old. Essentially a fetus. He’d never survive the night, especially without the warmth of my hands.
But survive the night he did.
Checking on him as soon as I awoke, his heartbeat had slowed and he was cold as I picked him up. Watching him, sure he was on his way out, he instead began to warm, moving with the same ceaseless vigor as the day prior. Shocked, I cradled him in my hands, wondering what to do. I began to feel, however, that my hands were giving him hope. Their warmth promised something that wasn’t an option—survival. So making a choice, I only held him periodically throughout the morning, continually wrapping him in love, but leaving him to the process of dying. There was nothing for him here and to prolong his stay seemed cruel. It was hard to walk away, but he was never alone. He sat in my heart every minute that his continued to beat ♥
finally, some joy
It was during lunch, almost twenty-four hours after making my promise to mama possum, that I felt a surge of joy move through me. I told the girls that I felt he was moving on and when I checked him soon after, I was able to confirm this with enormous relief. Tucking his now pale body back into his mama’s pouch with his siblings, my job was done. But so many questions remained.
I immediately began cleaning my house, something I always feel compelled to do after a death. It seems to clear the energy out and closes a chapter. Doing so, I couldn’t help but wonder about this little guy. Why had his mama chosen me? Because it did feel intentional. How many others would have spent the day sitting with a kidney-bean-sized baby? What was the connection between us? The significance?
Exhausted by the end of the day, I sat down to spend some time quietly reading Language of the Sacred. This book had already given me several spine-tingling synchronicities—and within minutes offered me another. In part, the passage read:
“There is one thing I would like to ask of you, dear reader. If you are fortunate enough to be able to witness a pet’s crossing, as hard as it may be for you, please be there with them…”
I stared at the words on the page, dumbfounded. Baby possum hadn’t been my pet, of course, but I’d done the same for him only hours before as I had for all of those who had been my pets. Thinking of them fondly, I suddenly had a strange awareness settle over me. It’s nothing I can prove and you may think me crazy for even considering it, but in that moment I became certain that mama possum and I have traveled together in this lifetime already. Once, in a previous incarnation, I feel she’s been a pet of mine or my girls. Leaving this earth cradled in the arms of someone who loved her, she wanted the same for her baby. And somehow, against all odds, she found her way back to me. It was a surreal moment, and one I won’t deny. As crazy as it sounds.
Resting her body out in the field to be reclaimed by the earth, I felt this wasn’t the first time I’d done so. Someone who had once known love here had returned home before returning Home ♥
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All the little possums reunited in possum heaven 🥲
RIP little possum :')