We Are All Made of Star-Stuff

Last week, a raccoon died on the east-bound side of Highway 21, on the right side of the road, midway into the shoulder, only a few miles before my exit. It was lying there having most likely come to a standstill after its fateful collision with a vehicle. Not far from the road is a small creek lined with scrubby trees; it makes sense that the raccoon would have crossed here.

On Monday, the first day I saw it, the raccoon must have been going through rigor mortis. It was in a tragically comical position– though splayed on its back, shoulders pinned to the dark asphalt, it was cleverly staring up at the sky, one limb jutting straight up, its black paw grabbing for something. I didn’t want to, but I smiled.

It was still like that on Tuesday, and it wasn’t funny anymore. By Wednesday, by some bit of grace — maybe a vulture had pecked at it — it’s body, if only slightly shifted, now had the paw resting at its side.

I say a vulture did it because if a car had run over the raccoon, it wouldn’t be intact. Still, there was a visible cut that went deep into the shoulder and neck. The racoon continued staring straight up at the sky. Even at night when none of us can see it, it’s watching the stars go by.