NUTS

An unraveling in two parts

Image created with AI.

Part 1: Scraps

I stand at the sink licking blueberry muffin batter off my fingers. I gaze out at our majestic Autumn Blaze maple tree in our back yard shedding the last of its crimson leaves while the wind picks up and the sun nestles behind a cloud turning the sky a gunmetal gray.

I rarely bake, but my husband loves blueberry muffins and I can handle a mix. Just.

And baking, whether from scratch or a mix, is a cozy thing, is it not? A sign of love, you might say.

“Here you go. Dig into those, honey.”

One of the squirrels that I regularly feed scampers down the tree and perches on his hind legs as he looks up at the window where I stand.

I waggle my fingers at him (or her) as I usually do which is a sign that he will soon be getting his fair share of the peanuts I toss out in fistfuls, rain or shine.

Oddly, he doesn’t react, doesn’t scamper toward the door leading to the yard as he always does, yet his eyes are bright with anticipation, and something akin to “hope,” knowing that the very strange, very tall animal on two legs will come through, once again.

He turns away and hops through the thick carpet of leaves, fat tail twitching as he searches for sustenance for the long winter ahead.

This is the one with the splash of white on his (or her) tummy. My favorite. I wonder how you can tell a squirrel’s gender. I must look that up one day.

A smile spreads across my face as I see the wind ruffle the tufts of his tiny ears.

This surprises me. When did my vision become so sharp? Maybe I don’t have “baby” cataracts after all. Certainly, doctors don’t know everything.

Out of habit, I wrap my arms around myself, yet it occurs to me that I don’t feel a chill standing here as I normally would this time of year. These window frames are old and drafty, yet replacing them would cost a fortune, so we let them be.

Even without the sun, the day must be milder than I thought.

I retrieve the jar of peanuts from the pantry and open the door. I cup my hand over my mouth, purse my lips, and make kissing noises to emulate the “chattering” sounds that squirrels make. I learned this online and normally, it never fails to signal my arrival. Normally, the squirrels come running, chasing each other out of the way as they don’t like to share.

This time, my friend the squirrel pays no mind. Rather, he darts to the other side of the yard, and watches, tail twitching at a furious pace now, as I toss out several handfuls of the peanuts—honey roasted, his favorite—and shut the door, waiting.

“Oh, alright,” I say. “I can play this game, too.”

I put the peanuts back in the pantry and return to my place at the window, but I try not to let the squirrel see me this time. Perhaps he wants his privacy. After all, who likes to be watched while they eat?

I peek around the frame and am astonished to see that the peanuts have gone untouched. He’s not perched on his hind legs, nibbling away while he watches me, watching him.

What’s going on here? Have they gone bad? I’m certain I bought them less than a week ago. Or was it longer? I truly can’t remember.

This saddens me. Not the fact that I can’t recall when I brought home the jar of peanuts, but the fact that I’ve let my friend down.

But I can rectify that. I’ll just buy a new jar. I’ll go this very day!

Immediately, I feel better.

Humming, I turn away from the window and look for my phone so I can check the weather. Will I need an umbrella? A coat, or a windbreaker?

I can’t find the damned thing. I know I put it on the cutting board before I started the muffins, but it’s not there.

Confused, I look around the orderly kitchen and then the family room. I toss aside the pillows on our loveseat but still, nothing.

I hate this. I hate not being able to find things. It happens a lot.

Thinking this, I feel a chill. And there’s an ache starting up in my head. A dull ache, at the back of my skull.

I take a few deep breaths to steady myself.

“Fuck the phone,” I think. “I’ll just wear whatever.”

My attention is drawn to a framed photo on the side table next to the loveseat.

My wedding picture. I look so young, as does my husband. So young, and so full of anticipation…and hope…just like my squirrel friend.

Rather than calm me down, seeing this unsettles me. I need to leave. I need to get out of here.

Nearly tripping over myself, I rush to the closet to grab my jacket. Normally, it’s full to overflowing, our coats and jackets jammed together because we never throw stuff out even though we say we’re going to.

Today, though, it’s neat as a pin. My husband’s jackets are lined up like soldiers and his favorite coat, the long, navy blue wool, is at the helm.

But where are my things?

I start to perspire. But, when I run a shaky hand across my forehead, it’s dry as dust.

No phone. No jacket.

My car keys.

I dart back to the kitchen and the wooden gizmo where we hang our car keys, in the same spot, every day, without fail.

My husband is out, so his keys aren’t there. But, neither are mine.

No phone. No jacket. No keys.

As the room starts to spin, I grab hold of the counter. Gulping for air, now I look out the window to see that the squirrel is gone and so are the peanuts.

Did he eat them? Without me?

It occurs to me that it’s so quiet in here. As if a thick, soundproof blanket has fallen over the house.

The Big Hush.

This makes me giggle in a way I’ve never heard before. As if it’s coming from someone else.

I know now.

Slowly, I walk to the oven. I forgot to check the muffins. When did I put them in?

I can’t remember that, either.

The oven is on “off.” I open it. Empty. Cold.

Where did the blueberry batter come from? What was I licking off my fingers?

Once more I return to my place at the window where the slow realization of things as they are, washes over me like a warm shower after a day spent raking leaves in the brisk, Autumnal air.

Raking leaves and feeding squirrels.

And I know, with certainty.

There is no blueberry muffin batter. No keys. No jacket. No phone. No peanuts.

And, no me.

There is only the squirrel. And what is left of me.

I am the ghost that watches at the window. And that is all I am.

Part 2: Dirty—coming next.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2026. All Rights Reserved.