You didn’t notice the first time. Not really.
You were just a kid then, knees dusty with campsite dirt, watching steam rise from your hot chocolate like a little spell. A squirrel hopped up on the picnic table—bold, brown, twitchy. He looked you dead in the eyes.
And then he cannonballed into your mug.
You screamed. He flailed. There was an undignified splash, followed by a wet, blurry blur streaking into the woods. Your dad muttered something about wildlife and sugar addiction. But you— you—had seen the gleam in his eye. The flash of something older than time. A whiskered knowing.
You didn’t drink the hot chocolate, of course. But you never forgot.
The second time, you were older. Not grown-up, just taller. Same forest, different tent. The thuds started before dawn—sharp, precise pocks against the nylon roof. Your dad cursed and threatened pinecone retribution. You peeked out of the flap, and there he was again. Sitting on a branch with criminal confidence, hurling cones like it was a job.
“Wilbur?” you said aloud, not knowing why.
He froze. For just a moment. Then vanished into the trees.
Years passed. You thought about squirrels sometimes. The way they moved. The way they watched.
Back home, you’d see one on the deck railing, methodically shredding pinecones into mulch. You called him Wilbur too. He was your companion through glass. On hard days, you’d sit on the couch and watch him feast, a small creature of purpose in a world full of mess.
You talked to him more than you talked to most people. He was a good listener.
Then came the attic incident.
The insulation was shredded, the holiday decorations demolished, and the sound of tiny feet woke you at midnight for three weeks straight. Your dad grumbled and offered a trap. You just left a note.
“Hi Wilbur. Sorry about the lack of pinecones. Please don’t chew the router.”
He was gone the next day. But he left a single pinecone on your pillow, stripped to its core.
Now you're camping again. Older. Maybe wiser. Sitting by the fire with a marshmallow you forgot to toast. And the squirrels are everywhere.
Everywhere.
And they’re all Wilbur.
You’ve named them that, of course, but some part of you knows. One perches on a stump with that same cocked head. One rustles in the underbrush with the same hurried rhythm. One climbs the nearest tree, pauses halfway up, and winks.
You blink.
“Wilby?”
He chitters.
And in a shimmer of light no one else sees, he’s gone again—up the tree, across time, into memory.
Later that night, in your tent, you hear the sound.
pock.
pock.
pock.
Pinecones on nylon.
You laugh. Your partner groans. Somewhere, Wilbur travels—through decades and stories and old hot chocolate steam. He’s the trickster, the observer, the agent of mildly inconvenient delight.
You think maybe he’s always been with you. Not a squirrel.
The squirrel.
The one who reminds you to look closer, laugh sooner, and never, ever leave your mug unattended.
Author’s Note:
Wilbur may be watching you as you read this. If so, offer him a pinecone. Or a joke. Or a nod through the window. He’ll know what to do.
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