ArcaMax

"We've got a possum in there," an employee said with a smile. She motioned around a corner, directing me toward the dwelling of the furry friend.

I played it cool, but I already knew about the possum living at the Clearwater Marine Aquarium in Florida. In fact, I'd announced to my family after dinner the night before that I intended to visit it.

After days of trying to crystalize a message of gratitude via the human world, thanks still seemed far away. But a possum beating the odds ... that would make anyone feel alive!

They didn't ask too many questions as I bought a ticket by the light of my phone. Smart.

Because you know what's more absurd than making a date with a possum? The fact that Thanksgiving got here so fast. Mere seconds ago, Hurricanes Helene and Milton whipsawed the region, forcing an inflection point about who we are and how much we can take. The storms took lives and livelihoods, soaked our real estate market, plunged communities into fights about infrastructure, sapped the government of resources.

Our streets and cafes and stores are slowly healing, but everything still has a droopy feel, like a table missing a leg. Now, because a calendar says so, we're supposed to sit around that broken table and be thankful. Quick, everyone, pretend you're fine. Express your gratitude over a butter sculpture. Express your guilt for even having gratitude. Choke down dry turkey and hug your possum-looking cousins, OK?

The scope of suffering was evident at the aquarium, where feet of floodwater caused major losses and forced manatees to temporarily move out. The nonprofit is known for rehabilitating all kinds of creatures, from late movie star Winter the dolphin to seahorses named Cheeto and Frito. The goal is release when possible, but some animals can't make it in the wild and live permanently at the facility.

On my visit, the manatees were still out of office, but a cadre of curious porpoises dove and flipped and waved. Pelicans stood stately, bossing each other around. Baby stingrays, alive for just two weeks, pressed their adorable undersides to the tank.

And then there was the possum, Benjamin. Five months old and five pounds. Just a wee thing.

He was nestled in the center of an exhibit on Florida's native and invasive species, kingsnakes and lesser sirens and beach mice. Each animal works within a delicate ecosystem, operating as pest control agents or dropping seeds that become coastline plants to fend off -- you got it -- hurricane impacts. These critters are hurt by the same things that hurt us, the same cruelties we bestow upon our planet: deforestation, development, driving. And big swings of fate.

When he was a month old, a dog attacked Benjamin. Now he can't balance quite right, can't climb down trees. He struggles to hold things. But he's alive, pressing his little pink fingers into logs and gazing at guests with soulful eyes, peepers that would freak us all out in the context of a dark bush.

Possums are complicated, scrappy opportunists with a pesky reputation and a whole lot of beauty. Sounds like Florida. Everything in this fragile place is too gorgeous, grizzly and complex to process in a neat and tidy way. There is no rescue without suffering. No life without death. No gratitude without ghastly things. Inside that equilibrium, maybe we can find the grains of thanks.

Benjamin got bored looking at me, rightfully. He waddled into his house and dug his mitts around the floor until his lodgings felt comfortable. He faced the wall, his prehensile tail dangling just out the door. One small lifeline to the weary world.

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Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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