The Opossum: Part 3

Isabella McCall, Columnist •

As the car raced to my grandmother’s home, so did my thoughts about my grandmother. I knew the most overbearing answer to the question of my grandmother’s silence was her death. Despite this I forced my thoughts to focus on lighter answers such as she had broken her phone, the ringer was off, even the possibility of her being injured, something easily fixable.

Nearing her house, my phone rang. I didn’t even look to see it was my grandmother as I answered it. Though I wanted it to be my grandmother, it was in fact a police officer who was standing at my grandmother’s door with an angry woman yelling at him.

Both the police officer and I struggled to communicate. I had trouble hearing what he way saying over my grandmother’s yelling and he had trouble trying to talk. As I heard him say he was talking to her granddaughter, mom turned the car up the drive. The first thing that struck me was not the police car with flashing lights, but the face of my suddenly very alive, and very kicking, grandmother.

Before we were even parked the flustered police officer was at our car door telling us his story. Apparently, when he first got here my grandmother was sitting right on the porch reading. When he walked up to her, asked her if she was alright, explained that he was there because she had not picked up her phone, she quickly got angry and began to tell him that it was payback to us since my mom had argued with him. When he stated that she really should not do that, she began to yell.

In that moment I two thoughts. One was pity for that police officer and the second was that the being standing on that porch glaring at me was the personified version of the possum I saw as a child. There was the woman who had beat the opossum out for the award of Appalachia’s best actor.

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