I found an earthworm this morning, while we were out walking.

Dead, I was sure, by the lack of reaction it had to my approach.

Still, even in death, once living things deserve some sort of care and respect and reverence.

So I scooped it up to move it.

Out of the middle of the sidewalk.
Where it lay half way between where it was and where it was going.

Out of sight from the neighborhood kids who delight in riding their little bicycles on the sidewalk, and over whatever lays in their path, and have not yet learned to look down and around themselves, in their headstrong quest to move forward.

As I headed to the bushes, where I intended to lay the small body to rest, I felt, in my palm, flicking ever so slightly at the center point, where the lifeline and heart line meet….hope.

This mere, small creature was not yet really and truly dead.

Only stunned into immobility by the sudden, overnight cold front.

“Welcome back Shilly Shally,” I crooned, at which point my husband shook his head, because, in my world, once you name something you are responsible for it, and he knew in that moment that the worm was coming home with us.

Yes. I carried Shilly, cupped in my palm and halfway up my sleeve, the several blocks home.

Settled him into an empty gravy jar filled with soil and vegetable scraps.

Tucked him in on a shelf on the mudroom.

Promised to release him in a few days when the weather warms back up.

Watched him burrow in tight, pull the earth in around him.

Bid him good day and turned out the light.