The Squirrel's Box

A woman in a hurry to cross the street bumped into her and spun her toward our sign. If my gift was intuiting and a bit of prescience I could feel that hers was for healing. She would take the box and carry it inside, a nurse till the creature was ready to venture back into the branches. Scraped knees or broken hearts,. elders who'd lost themselves or friends worn out by the long gray days of winter, she was the one who reached out. In a flash of understanding I knew hers was the house whose door was knocked on when a baby squirrel fell from its nest.