Many afternoons during my elementary school years, my mother would yell “SARAH!” from the kitchen when she realized I had brought home yet another dead chipmunk in my lunchbox and left it on the counter.
Bringing dead chipmunks I found on the way home from school made complete sense to me. I was a preacher’s kid, and they clearly needed burial. But to my mother—not so much. It meant that on a very tight budget she would need to buy me yet another lunch box.
At that age, I lacked the language to explain why I was doing this. It just made sense to me. I had a connection with these animals, and I needed to bury them in my mother's front bushes...