To the raccoon squatting in our attic

The exterminator says you’ve gathered our winter blankets and made yourself a makeshift bed in the corner, that you’ve hung pine cones as decor on the walls, that you’ve rearranged the furniture to create a more feng-shui look.

 

The exterminator says you’re a female, a “big girl” were his exact words. I was in the middle of telling him how terribly rude it is to comment on a woman’s weight when he clarified that you’re pregnant. I suppose a congratulations is in order! How’s the morning sickness? Are you cramping? Have you picked out any baby names?

 

The exterminator says there’s only proof of one raccoon in our attic. Do you mind me asking, where’s the babies’ father? Is he working long hours? Did he say he was going out to get milk, never to come back again?

 

The exterminator says he’ll try to catch you through a trap near our attic window after you go out and forage. I ask if he caught you, where would you go? He says he’ll relocate you. Relocate? I ask. As in disorient you? Dump you? Ditch you into a foreign land?

 

The exterminator says not to think too much about it because you’re “just a raccoon,” you’re “not human.” Is that the definition of refugee? What if they dump you in a predator’s territory? What if you can’t make a living there? What if you don’t speak the language?

 

At night, a blizzard hailed, and I heard you climbing on our roof. I went to the attic to remove the trap, to open the window, to let you in, to take your hand. My husband, a breath behind, stopped me. But what if she’s scared? I asked. But what if she’s cold?

 
(Forgive me.)