My father is leaving out grapes for the foxes again. He tells ten-year-old me they’re good for them. It’ll take me until my first year of veterinary school to realise this isn’t true.
I recall my mother poking her head round the patio door to let us know she’s off to her Reiki class.
“Ok, love, see you later.” He offers me the tub of grapes. “Load of bloody rubbish”, he scoffs under his breath. I grab a handful.
Mum tries to explain Reiki when I ask her at bedtime.
“The healing hands”, she says, stroking my hair, whispering in the glow of my lamplight. How the body can let go of bad memories.
I’d often hear the foxes in the nighttime, screaming like crying babies or evil witches. Some nights I’d hear my father open his bedroom window and scream back at them, his voice joining in falsetto with their weird opera. That scared me more than their animal sounds.
I’d felt close to Dad that evening, working together, throwing handfuls of grapes to feed the local wildlife. The next day was Saturday. I always woke early to watch cartoons and eat Frosties straight out of the box, cherry-picking the most sugar-encrusted whilst staring in awe at superheroes on the TV.
Box in hand, I remember how I looked out onto the frosted grass and saw a magical sight on the lawn. The sleeping fox.
“Daaaaad!” I call excitedly. Slipper-clad, I pull the door ajar and pad over.
Looking back, I know now, it has died from kidney failure. Overconsumption of tartaric acid. Dad appears by my side.
“Must have had mange”, he explains. Ten-year-old me doesn’t know what that means. I lay my hands gently on the fox, burying my fingers into its rich, red fur.
Anna is a creative director living and writing in London. In her spare time, she is attempting to write a folk horror novel. She is also a member of the writing group, Sad Man Tapas, who meet every Tuesday to share their stories.
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