Sunday, April 4, 2010

Hitting A Possum

One night in November 1993, as I was driving east on 56th Street right before its interchange with I-465, I ran over a possum going from the north side of the road to the south side.

I knew I hit it because I could hear the thump of my tire as I drove over it.

Then I felt guilty: Possibly more guilty than necessary.

I hadn't meant to kill it and hadn't swerved soon enough to prevent the accident.

More importantly, I felt guilty because I killed something that looked semihuman in the head and face: Like either a bald old man in a fur coat or a bald, wrinkled baby in a fur blanket.

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