In the oldest part of the forest, where the trees had grown so close their roots tangled deep in the earth, there lived an opossum. This little creature wandered mostly at night. When everything felt safe and calm. The forest was different at night. During the day the sky belonged to the birds, the clover belonged to the rabbits, the fields belonged to the deer, but at night… everything belonged to the moon. This brought comfort to the opossum. She walked beneath curling ferns and over roots slick with rain. She ate fallen fruit before it could rot too deeply. She dutifully searched the leaves for grubs and shiny green beetles. Everywhere she went things clung to her. Seeds, burrs, petals, bits of moss. She liked it this way. It was like the forest remembered her. The Other creatures thought her strange, her smile too wide, her tail too bare, sleeping while the sun was bright, Playing dead every time she got spooked. She was sad that they missed the beautiful, soft sound of frogs and the shadows from the moon. They didn't know that where she had eaten berries, new plants grew. Where she sat to watch the moon, seeds took root. The paths she followed became soft with life. Without even trying every place she went changed because she had been there. By morning, no one ever knew who had made the forest feel more like home. Beneath the curling vines and wildflowers the opossum knew who made the forest more and more alive and beautiful.
