At the time I was thirty-seven, divorced, and telling people I didn’t want children. I knew that line by heart. The possum started as an accessory. Black dresses that never quite fit right, silver rings that left green on my fingers. Then a small animal with pale hands appeared in frame and people paid attention.
I named him Alaric because I read the name once and never forgot it. The rescue woman said he was a male Virginia opossum, about four months, decent temperament. I said I could work with that.
The first video that took off showed him tucked inside my hood, nose out, eyes bright.“That’s your baby,” people wrote. I replied with skull emojis. It kept the tone where I wanted it.
He learned the fridge schedule fast. Six in the evening meant blueberries. He waited on the tile and tapped the door when I was late. At night he slept on my chest while I edited, his body rising and falling with mine. The followers liked “distinguished gentleman” photos once his face started to gray.
Possums don’t get long. Every site, every video, said the same number and none of them sounded apologetic.
Around month eight with me he slowed down. He missed jumps. His tail stayed cold even under a blanket. I read things at night I didn’t bookmark. Pain charts. End-of-life signs. Forums where people typed in past tense.
The morning he died he didn’t come to the fridge. I found him under the couch. Breathing shallow. Mouth open. I lay on the floor and pulled him to me. I didn’t film it. Well, I filmed ten seconds and deleted it.
He died halfway through me saying his name.
I posted a black square later. People filled it with hearts and candle emojis. The notifications kept coming. Someone asked about a memorial livestream. I set the phone down and went outside.
The pool in my yard is the cheap above-ground kind with a ladder I never use. I lined a shoebox with faux fur. Put him inside with blueberries and a soda tab he used to steal from my desk. I wore the long black lace dress.
I set tea candles in old glassware and balanced the box on a serving tray. I set the phone on the porch rail where the paint was peeling. Let it run silent. The neighbor’s kid was watching over the fence. He took off his baseball cap.
“Alaric came to us from Daytona. He liked pizza and The Cure,” I said, and pushed the tray. “And now his watch has ended.”
It drifted to the middle. The water carried the light around. Then the tray tilted. The box filled and went under. The candles tipped and died one by one.
I cried hard enough that my nose ran. Loud enough for the neighbor’s dog to bark.
The video did numbers. I don’t know if that means he was loved or just visible. A few people sent me CashApps.
Messages stacked up. One person said sorry for your loss and then asked for the dress brand in the same bubble. Another said that I had a mother’s heart. I didn’t answer.
That night the house held its shape differently. No nails on tile. No rustle in the trash bag. The fridge opened at six and nothing stood waiting.
My chest felt it first. You don’t plan on missing what you said was temporary.
In the morning I found a blueberry under the stove, shriveled and dark. I left it there.
I still buy blueberries. They sit in a bowl until they wrinkle. Sometimes I open the fridge at six without thinking.
Nothing comes.