I Almost Gave Up On My Garden After Harold Passed
Then a tiny reading squirrel helped me find my way back outside
For thirty-seven years, the garden was ours. Harold would dig while I planted. He'd complain about the rabbits eating the lettuce while secretly leaving carrot tops at the fence for them. Summer evenings meant two chairs pulled close, watching fireflies, talking about nothing important.
After he passed, I couldn't look at those chairs. Couldn't bear the silence where his voice used to be. The weeds grew. The bird feeder emptied. I stayed inside.
My daughter worried. She'd call and ask if I'd been outside today. The answer was always the same polite deflection. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow never came.
Then one afternoon, a package arrived. No occasion. Just a note in her handwriting: "Thought you might like some company in the garden. Love, Sarah."
A Reluctant Introduction
Inside was a resin squirrel, about the size of a small cantaloupe, clutching a tiny book and sitting on a branch. Solar-powered, the box said. Hangs anywhere. Glows at night.
I almost laughed. Sarah knew me too well—I'd always been the reader in the family, the one with a book in every room. A squirrel who shared the habit felt oddly personal.
It sat on my counter for three days. Hanging it would mean going outside. Going outside would mean facing the garden. Facing the garden would mean facing the emptiness.
But guilt is a powerful motivator. My daughter had tried. The least I could do was try back.
The First Evening
I hung it on Harold's old shepherd's hook—the one he'd bought for a hanging basket that never quite thrived. The squirrel looked absurd there, I thought. A silly thing.
That night, I glanced out the kitchen window while washing dishes. The garden was dark except for one small amber glow. The squirrel, head bent over its book, reading by its own light.
I stood there longer than I'd meant to. Something about that soft, steady glow felt like a nightlight left on for a child afraid of the dark. It didn't illuminate much. Just itself. Just that one small spot of warmth in all that darkness.
I went to bed thinking about it.
What Started as Checking Became Visiting
The next evening, I told myself I was just checking that it still worked. The evening after that, I brought my tea outside. By the end of the week, I'd pulled a chair over—not Harold's chair, not yet—just the folding one from the garage.
The squirrel didn't ask me to talk about my feelings. Didn't suggest I see someone. It just glowed, and read, and kept me company while I remembered how to breathe outdoor air again.
I started noticing things. The roses Harold planted had bloomed without us. A cardinal family had moved into the old birdhouse. The weeds weren't as bad as I'd imagined.
The Garden Didn't Need Me To Be Ready
Grief doesn't follow a schedule. Some nights I still can't go out there. Some nights the chair stays folded.
But the squirrel keeps its routine regardless. It charges all day, patient and unhurried. When evening comes, it glows. It doesn't matter if I'm watching or not. It's there when I'm ready. It doesn't take it personally when I'm not.
There's something healing in that consistency. No demands. No expectations. Just a small, silly, beautiful thing doing what it was made to do.
Last week, I pulled a few weeds near where it hangs. Yesterday, I refilled the bird feeder. Small steps. The squirrel witnessed them all, nose in its book, glowing its quiet approval.
A Companion That Asks For Nothing
It's weathered two rainstorms and a windstorm that knocked over my potted tomatoes. The resin held. The colors stayed true. The little book pages—painted so carefully you'd swear they're real—didn't chip or fade.
It requires nothing from me. No batteries to change, no switches to remember, no wires to trip over. Just sunlight, which the garden has plenty of, and a branch or hook to call home.
My neighbor Margaret came by last Tuesday. She saw it glowing and laughed—the good kind of laugh, the surprised-and-delighted kind. "Where on earth did you find that?" she asked.
I told her the story. She teared up a little. Then she asked if she could take a picture for her sister, who'd just lost her husband too.
Available in up to 3 kinds of magnifications- 8x, 15x and 23x. The lenses are easy to switch and clean, just wipe with a lens cloth.
The inner lens is 8x while the outer extended lens is 15x. The outer lens is detachable to be used alone or with the 8x magnifier per your needs.
Harold Would Have Loved It
He was the practical one, always asking what things do. But he also loved whimsy—the garden gnome he bought as a joke and then refused to part with, the wind chimes that drove the neighbors crazy.
I think he'd look at this little squirrel, with its earnest expression and tiny book, and say something like, "Well, at least someone around here reads as much as you do."
I'd roll my eyes. He'd grin. And we'd sit there together, watching it glow.
The garden isn't ours anymore. It's mine now, which still feels wrong sometimes. But I'm learning to be out there anyway. The squirrel helps.
Some Things Just Know When To Show Up
I don't believe objects have magical powers. I'm too practical for that—Harold's influence, probably.
But I do believe in small invitations. A reason to go outside. A gentle light in the darkness. Something to check on, something that gives your hands a destination when grief makes the world feel too big.
This squirrel is all of those things. It didn't fix my grief—nothing does. But it gave me a reason to step back into a space I'd abandoned. And from there, slowly, the rest started to follow.
If you know someone who's lost their person, or if you're the one who lost them, maybe this little fellow could help the way it helped me. Not a solution. Just a companion. A small, glowing reason to go outside.
The GlowNut Solar Reading Squirrel Lantern
Solar-powered. Weather-resistant. Zero maintenance.
Charges by day, glows 6-8 hours each night. Hangs anywhere there's sunlight.
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