The Mouse

But something momentous had happened. While J. and C. were in the kitchen talking to the nurse, I had gestured toward Socrates, and asked, “When you moved the radio, what happened to your mouse? I’ve been worrying about it!”

For as long as I’d known him, he had had a collection of tiny animal figurines, totally mismatched, made out of various materials – some quite fine and lovely and even old, others just silly – which were always arranged somewhere. In his previous house he’d had them along a windowsill until one day when they disappeared and then were rediscovered by us, scattered in the branches of a potted Norfolk pine like creatures in the many-layered canopy of a rain-forest. Each of the animal-characters had had its place carefully selected for the amusement of our latter-day Noah, and his visitors, especially the children he enjoyed entertaining.

In his retirement-home apartment, the animals were arranged in a circle on a wooden lazy-susan tray, following one after another like circus animals in a ring: ivory camels, wooden monkeys, painted horses. The tray was first on a desk, then on the kitchen counter, and now it was placed on a table between the bedroom and living room. Lately, gaps had appeared in the animal parade, which indicated to me that he’d been giving figures away to visitors.

But the tiny, white porcelain mouse had never lived on the windowsill, in the tree or on the tray. It accompanied Socrates wherever he went, and for years now that had meant that the mouse sat up on its haunches, tail curled, ears wide for better listening, near the philosopher’s feet on top of the old Grundig radio with its stained grille and heavy metal knobs. The housekeepers who came to do the floors and dust the apartment every week had been very careful about it, and before they left had always told him they’d put it right back where it belonged.

“It disappeared!” he said, jauntily. “Yep. Something happened to it when we moved everything around. They’ve looked everywhere for it, but none of us can find it. Oh well, c’est la vie!” I searched his face for signs of distress, but there were none; I only felt my own heart, sinking.

Comments

[dale]

oh.

(o)

[Pat]

Oh my! My own heart is sinking.

This series on your father-in-law is just so wonderful. It stirs me in ways I don't yet understand and also inspires.
Thank you.

[Natalie]

Oh no! The mouse must not be lost. I feel so distressed to read this, not only for him, but for my own lost Mickey Mouse.
Beth, these accounts are so powerfully moving and he is such an endearing character. You've managed to make us care about him as if we were there with you.

[Fred Garber]

I am really enjoying this series of posts. You really do have a book here. The mouse episode reveals a great spiritual teaching. In loss their is gain. That really is life. They more we loose the more we gain.

[Dick]

This moving series stirs me in ways I understand only too well, Beth, and I know whereof you speak.

[leslee]

It's not easy to let go. For us, not so much for them.

[Lucy]

Oh dear, I'm sorry Beth. But it's true, what Fred and Leslee say, I think.

They tried my mum with a budgie, quite near the end, because she missed her animals. She couldn't get attached to it, I think its confinement and noise bothered her. She just said, 'Budgie decided to leave.' The attendants couldn't account for it. I believe she opened the cage and let it out of the French doors, which was the kind of irresponsible thing she would never have done earlier in her life. Letting go, not caring, I think there must be a relief, even a joy, near the end when you can do it.

[language hat]

Another heart sinking. Thanks for bringing us the news, however saddening.