After eleven months of absence, I called the gorilla by its name.
He looked me straight in the eyes.
Then he turned away and disappeared behind the rocks.
I stood there, leaning on my crutches, trying to understand how losing track of her could hurt almost as much as the morning I woke up without my left leg.
My name is Jack Mercer. For twelve years, I worked with a silverback named Samson at a zoo near Columbus, Ohio.
Before the accident, I could have told you where he would be at seven o’clock in the morning, which vegetables he would save for last, and how his expression changed when a delivery truck screeched past on the service road.
I couldn’t have told you what he was thinking.
This distinction mattered in my profession.
It became harder to keep in mind when I came back hoping he had missed me.
For most of those twelve years, my mornings began before the zoo opened. I checked the gates, prepared the food, and recorded what was happening in the habitat.
Later, I would sit near a narrow side window, a clipboard balanced on my knee.
Samson often settled nearby.
A thick pane of glass separated us. He had his family, his routines, and a whole home to navigate. I had notes to finish before the radio started calling me.
Some mornings, we would stay there for twenty minutes.
No representation. No contact. Just a man writing and a gorilla resting close enough that the man eventually started talking.
« More rain. »
« You left the carrots. »
« Neither of us looks ready for a Monday. »
Sometimes Samson would respond with a low sound.
Sometimes, no.
I never recorded these conversations in the official report.
But I remembered.
Then, on a rainy February evening, a van crossed the center line as I was driving home.
My last clear memory is the sweep of headlights across the windshield.
When I woke up in the hospital, my sister, Beth, was sitting by the bed, my hand in hers.
The surgeon had already explained what had happened. I asked him to explain it again.
There was nothing left to save under my left knee.
People told me I was lucky to be alive.
I knew they meant it without malice. I was grateful to be alive.
I was also furious, scared, and unable to imagine an ordinary morning.
Rehabilitation gave me things to measure. Transfers. Balance. Distance. How long I could stand before exhaustion changed the way I moved.
My body healed unevenly. Problems with the fit of my prosthesis still required me to use crutches most of the time.
The zoo called. Colleagues sent cards. Lily Bennett, the zookeeper I had trained, occasionally sent me news of Samson.
Enjoy your food.
Rest in the shelter is.
Explored a new enrichment for fourteen minutes.
I asked him to stick to the facts.
A message saying he was okay helped me.
A message saying he missed me would have devastated me.
By the summer, Lily had taken over the morning routines that I used to lead.
I was proud of her.
I also hated the moment of silence after each call, when I realized that the place could continue to function without me.
For weeks, I postponed the visit.
Beth finally asked me what I was waiting for.
I replied that I wanted to be stronger.
She looked at the bag already packed next to my armchair.
« You’ve been ready since Tuesday. »
I didn’t reply.
The truth was embarrassing.
I could bear needing help getting in. I could bear my colleagues seeing me with one trouser leg bent.
I wasn’t sure I could bear Samson looking at me like a stranger.
In January, I finally went.
Lily met me before the audience arrived. She had brought a wheelchair for the longer journeys.
I chose crutches.
She didn’t argue, even though she took a chair with her.
At the large observation window, Samson sat near the grey rocks, his broad shoulders warmed by a weak winter sun.
Seeing him made me forget the pain in my hands.
« Hey, old man. »
His head turned.
For a second, I smiled with my whole face.
Then he got up, went past the rocks and disappeared.
I waited.
Lily was waiting next to me.
« He has his own morning, » she said softly.
» I know. «
My remaining leg had begun to tremble.
She moved the chair forward.
« Sit down for a minute. »
I wanted to leave before she saw me crying.
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