One season after my wife died, Mailwoman Susan delivered a monkey to my home. “Who’s this from, Susan?” “It’s from me. I’m retiring and I want to give you a hairy gift.” “Are you giving everyone you delivered mail to a monkey?” “Different animals. I’m giving your speedy neighbor Larry a cheetah.” “But why are you giving me a monkey?” “Well your hairiness and your wife’s decomposing hairiness.” “I loved her hairiness.” “By the way, why are you naked?” “Oh goodness — you’re right. I was so excited to see you I forgot to affix any cotton to my beastly frame.” “Do you become more beast than man when you’re naked?” “Yes, I’m a beast who’s going to watch a nature documentary on Netflix.” “As will I.” “Thank you Susan for the monkey.”
My monkey came in a wood crate. Across the top, the crate declared its timber came from trees felled in the Amazon. I lifted with my knees to carry it under living room glare. Yet when I reached my front steps, I slipped and dropped it like a kapok tree hacked down in a faraway jungle. I gaped upon wood shards and a monkey walking like a human. I got up and stood naked before this ancestral cousin.
Wrinkled at my feet, I picked up a note that got tucked inside the crate: “Since your wife died, I became more and more depressed delivering all your sad mail. I’ve trained this female monkey to be your new wife.” I collected the timber, tossed it into my fireplace, sparked a blue-smile fire. The flames French-kissed my body. When the monkey scampered up the commanding apple tree in my front yard, she bit into a bruised apple as my human blood warmed.