The Myth of Wile E

A Passel of Possum

Remember my opossum friend? Well, would you believe, he turned out to be quite an avid collector of leaves and leafiana. He was constantly expanding his collection, with the acquisition of various sunset-colored maple leaves, each of which was an OoP one-of-a-kind edition. He'd scoop up the leaves into a little bundle which he'd clutch in his tail and drag away to his den. I suppose in the privacy of his own home he would inspect them for creasing, foxing, and edgewear, sorting and cataloging them by whatever criteria leaf aficionados looked for. In a short while he'd be back again, empty-tailed, browsing for more. Sometimes when he was ten or twenty feet from his den he'd stop in his tracks, as if wracking his little possum brain about something: Did I forget my wallet in my other pouch? Did I return that overdue book? But then he'd decide that life was too short to worry about such things.

Or should I say: she.

Because one night when I ran into the possum gathering leaves, maybe for some upcoming Leaf-Con International, I was surprised to see seven miniature versions of the possum all clinging to her back with their tiny white hands and pink tails clutching her fur.

Mama possum paused and stared at me with her shiny licorice-colored eyes. All the mini possums gaped like kids staring out a school bus on their way to a field trip.

"Howdy," I said.

The mother possum grinned, baring her fifty pointy teeth.

Then she waddled off, hauling leaves behind her in her tail-fist. The seven mini possums bobbed up and down, up and down, all of them turning to gawk at me the whole way to their den.