NaPoWriMo #6: A Poem My Mother Will Love (Autumn Wars)

Autumn Wars

We first noticed the hole in August, in the upper corner of the room hidden by the mantle and watchful eyes of the cherubs. For weeks before, we had wondered where the pellets of animal waste were coming from, or why the pantry always seemed more bare than we had left it. We staked it out, waiting by the corner to catch a mouse, sillily armed with tennis rackets and garbage bags. You'd think we were waiting for the Hun army, battle plans were scattered across the dining room table. I stationed myself, the Commander, at the ready as you, my dear lieutenant, hunched low, arms spread open with a plastic bag gaping for our prey. We were almost ready to call it a night when the first head poked out from the darkened hollow. A tail, followed by the scurry of claws and another hungry head, and soon we were face to face with the enemy. Not the mice we had diligently planned against, but two fat squirrels sat on the mantle, slipped behind the sentried cherubs, down to the floor and darted to the faint trail of rice lingering at the bottom of our pantry. You shrieked, I swung wildly, like a blind man in a wind storm. You dropped the bag and the two grey bandits scurried back up the heating duct and retreated to their hollow.

***
The next day you showed up with your father's bb gun, so we sat out on the stoop sniping the thieves who were eating us out of house and home. We sat there all summer, vigilant in defense, always taking turns on the watch. You were a much better shot, and you always looked so confidently blood-thirsty every time you tagged one. We'd carry out the dead to the compost heap by the alley, turning invaders back into earth, our little way of justifying our preventative destruction. When the snow finally came to cause the dénouement, there were sixteen pelts hanging from our trophy belts. We patched the hole and filled our pantry to the brim.
***
When the earth thawed, I slung your father's gun over my shoulder and backed my bike out from its winter shed. I was halfway to your house when I heard the blast, pitching forward over my handlebars and onto the pothole-riddled street. Under the tire, freshly exploded, there was a squirrel, deader than Moses, dragged out by some alley cat or karmic bitch, where with one last bout of prideful existence had managed to sink a sharp tooth through the rubber. I commended the valiant nature-warrior, holder of all revenge, swept it off into the gutter and wheeled my bike down the road to your house. I left the gun on the porch. It never takes an army to tell you when you've been defeated.