From a letter I wrote to the boyfriend:
There’s a pine tree outside the window to the left of the lifeguard stand. It’s the home of two squirrels, a male and a female. As I sit here, I see movement every few minutes or so from the tree. If I’m quick enough, I can catch the male squirrel coming down from the top of the tree, or him returning to the tree with clumps of grass and twigs in his mouth. Over and over again he climbs down from the top of the tree just to climb back up again only a few moments later.
They are making a nest; spring is coming. They’ll have babies soon. The male squirrel makes countless trips up and down the tree to gather materials. He’s building a home for his family. He’s going to be a father soon, so he’s stepping up and taking responsibility. Maybe it’s just his animal instinct, but I like to romanticize and think that it’s because he loves the female squirrel. He wants to build her a home. Hell, there’s a chance that it isn’t even the male squirrel at all. I cannot tell the gender of squirrels nor do I know which sex builds the nest, but there’s nothing romantic about a female squirrel building her own nest.
I’m telling you this silly story about squirrels and nests because when I watched the male squirrel make his upteenth trip, I thought of you, and how if we were squirrels, you would make a million trips up and down our tree to build us a home because you love me.
I don’t literally expect the human equivalent of the male squirrel. Rather, this whole thing is just a metaphor of sorts for our love. The male squirrel is showing the female squirrel he loves her with each trip. You do the same thing in a sense, I just have failed to really grasp that until now.