The Turtle Goddess Scarfing Fistfuls of Lettuce

To be Grabbed at by Every Squirrel and Monkey

He was startled, entering his own kitchen, to discover her kneeling in front of the open refrigerator and rummaging through the vegetable bin. She had been gone for weeks. Now, unannounced, she was back, pulling fistfuls of lettuce from his fridge and cramming them into her mouth, unrinsed.

He recognized her immediately, frozen in his fascinated stare. Eventually he cleared his throat, to announce his presence. She did not respond immediately, but eventually turned her head toward him, very, very slowly; still munching leaves. She said nothing, just eyed him, forcing him to break the silence.

“I worried you were dead or something”.

She continued to chew, continued her silence, scanning him, up and down.

The refrigerator had one of those “Door Open” alarms. The intermittent buzz was the only other sound to accompany her chewing and gulping. She did not respond, turning away from him and back to the vegetables.

“I thought you would have left a note or something. A text? Voicemail? An email? A postcard? A letter? A chalk note on the sidewalk? Didn’t you imagine I’d worry?”

She slowly backed up, pulling the refrigerator door closed and pointed to a bit of scribble at the bottom door: “Off to visit the Turtle God. I will return. Don’t expect me to say I love you. I will miss you, instead.”

“Oh”, he said out loud, but it was barely audible over the continuing munching.

He knelt down and hugged her and she awakened.

“Turtle God?”, he wondered, looking sideways at the scribbled note on the appliance. Why had he never heard of a turtle god before? His mind tried making connections, but the best he could come up with were the cartoon Teenage Mutant Turtles, bizarre super heroes named after famous painters. On a different level, he remembered something about the origin of the world on the back of a turtle, something profound. He knew little more of each of these turtle stories, nothing of a turtle god.

But, now, looking as she slowly masticated her lettuce, he wondered if she had taken on turtleness. Her head turned slowly toward him and she mouthed her first word: “what?”

Later she told him, not why she wore a turtle shell that protected her heart, but that she protected her heart with an invisible shield. He could see, since he wasn’t blind that it was a tortoise shell.

Like any turtle or creature who wears such protection, she would stick her neck out and judge for herself what the weather was like: meteorologically or emotionally. If it was bad,or hinted such, she would pull back inside, withdraw.

Who had taught her this trick? Had the Turtle God? Was her heart so tender from abuse or was she born with a hyper sensitive heart? Maybe she thought that her heart, if exposed, might be victimized, grabbed at by every squirrel and monkey.

Perhaps she had experience with squirrels and monkeys. Is it possible that some cheeky scamp had grabbed at and toyed with her feelings at a more vulnerable age, before she slipped into this suit of turtle armor? Possibly so.

But she said nothing about any such thing.