Of Roadkill

I drive about 50 miles one way to get to work every day. I take rural roads and highways, and I am finding that my drives become heavier and heavier.

I am one of those “saps” that sees dead animals on the side of the road and I feel sorrow.

Every day so many people transverse these black rivers of death, a path paved in blood and bones. We replaced the world they knew, a world of light and air and green and life, and replaced it with a world of gray and concrete and noise and poisons.

I have a hard enough time with the squirrels I see, even harder with raccoons. I have seen entire families of deer, dead on the side of the road – and I know they are families because I know when I see a spotted fawn and a doe not far away, it is mother and child.

I have pulled over and cried when I saw what was left of a hawk that had been taken out on the highway. I’ve watched ducks and small birds fly across lanes to meet the grill of a semi – and I watched explosions of feathers, and then pulled over in hysterics….

The cats break my heart, and the few dogs I have seen have sent me to tears. Today I saw what was left of a black bear, after it lost to what appeared to be a semi….

As a child traveling with my parents, my father “made up” a stupid song about roadkill – I at least know why I am twisted. But the refrain is all I remember:

“Dead skunk in the middle of the road,
dead skunk in the middle of the road,
dead skunk in the middle of the road – and he ain’t having no fun.”

And “skunk” was replaced with whatever animal he happened to see while driving. Go figure mom was appalled, and my brother sang along – and I sat there being mocked by all for mourning the death of a creature.

Perhaps this is what is wrong with the world. We are surrounded by death, and we look the other way. We mock it and belittle the lives of living creatures, taking away their value because we do not want to be bothered.

This is what happens in my mind when I get to drive for an hour by myself. This is what my mind does to me. I dwell on bizarre topics and I can’t let go until I get the words out some how.

Today it was the bear that did it. I was raised in the wilderness of Alaska, raised to respect and revere nature in all its forms. My father, twisted though he is, raised me to respect the spirit of all living things, and to honor them when they pass. Growing up when my father and brother went hunting, my father was the one who when thy brought the critters home said a prayer, honoring the animal for its life. Whatever was brought him was eaten, all parts used. And trophy hunting was the greatest sin…

Perhaps now I can sleep without the souls of the dead hunting my dreams.

Isn’t it great to see just how fucked the inside of my head really is most of the time?