What follows is a partial account of how I came to have nine point six toes, with reflections on the squirrel responsible. There are five pieces. They are best read in order, but I will not insist.
Should you wish to leave a few words for Bartholomew — 6 have already done so — the page is open.
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The Day I Met Bartholomew
27 March 1947 · Hannut, Belgium
I was hanging laundry behind the cellar when he came at me. I want to be clear: he was already not himself.
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On Counting Toes
12 April 1947 · Hannut, Belgium
Children ask. They cannot help it. I have learned to say 'nine point six' before they finish the question.
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Hannut, Remembered in My Bones
3 May 1947 · Hannut, Belgium
It rained the night before the panzers came. Seven years on, my left knee still tells me when it will rain in May.
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Bartholomew's Last Acorn
21 June 1947 · Hannut, Belgium
The squirrel has died. He has died, I should add, from choking on the very toe he stole from me.
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A Memorial, Of Sorts
9 November 1947 · Hannut, Belgium
Friends have asked how to mark the squirrel's passing. I am, after some consideration, opening this page for tributes.
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