I Used To Have A Tail
I used to have a tail. I remember it from when I was a child. It was long and soft like a cat’s tail, but prehensile like a monkey’s. I loved my tail very much. I would climb things with it, using my hands and my feet and my tail to scale trees, fences, furniture, sometimes even the occasional jungle gym. Actually I laughed at the meager playground toys in the park near my house. They were so easy, so safe. They were clearly designed for kids who did not have a tail!
I would play with my tail. It was mine, but it wasn’t quite me either. I used to sit in class, looking straight ahead at the teacher and pretending to listen. It’s when I was the most bored that my tail would try to sneak up on me, gradually creeping up from behind to peek over the side of my chair. When I sensed it tickling the edge of my peripheral vision, I would dart my eyes toward it, give it a stern glance that was suppose to shame it into behaving itself. But that never worked. A few minutes later, there it would be again, peeking out at me. Finally I gave up and lunged at it with my hands, determined to discipline it once and for all. I only succeeded in knocking my chair over, and I remember the laughter of the class and the irritation of my teacher I as sheepishly pulled myself off the floor. From that point on I just let my tail rest in my lap during class, sometimes lying there peacefully, sometimes twitching restlessly.
I never got made fun of for my tail. The other kids said many other things that hurt me. “Nerd!” they said. “Ha ha! Look at the way he runs!” they said. One time they kicked over the snowman I built as soon as I walked away from it. This seemed so utterly senseless that it made me cry. Later, a group of boys ran up and stole my hat, and I never got it back. Plus I was always picked last for kickball. All of this was hard for me as a child. But not my tail. Although no one ever said anything, I knew they were jealous. More than that: they were in awe of my tail, envious and maybe even a little scared. Before they could say anything, I would smile my secret smile, content that I knew things, felt things, was different in a way that they could never know. They could see it on my face, I think, and that look always stopped them before they started.
I felt safe with my tail. When it was cold I would wrap it around myself, folding it in with my arms around my little body. When I was scared, I would hold it to my chest and stroke it fitfully. Its softness and warmth was always reassuring. At night, I would curl up and sleep within its circle.
I don’t remember exactly when I lost my tail.
There wasn’t a specific incident, some tragic accident or tearful goodbye. My recollection of what happened is blurred, fuzzy, like a hundred episodes of Saturday morning cartoons that all eventually run together. There is no before and after in my mind. My tail simply fades out in my memory. But I know my tail was there. I have an old scar over my tailbone, and the stub of my spine still points in the direction I used to curl my tail around myself as I slept.
(Thanks to Josie for finding my tail.)
