Summer colds. Enterovirus, NOT rhinovirus. A cocktail of misery. Why do my thighs hurt? Went outside to garden, into thick air like water. Pests: spider mites killing the sunflower, harlequin beetles on the collards, aphids on the pear’s most tender shoots. Fu%@#*& opportunists! Will deal with you when my thighs don’t hurt! I can do laundry. It’s downhill to the washer and dryer in the basement. I can fill out a reference form. You sure you want me as a reference in this state of mind? Hippy dippy, wendy bendy, hee hee heeeeee. Fever dreams..the best acid-less trip. Then the eyes open and the body is a pool of lead. I can cancel an eye appointment, that wellness check of the hyper-vigilant, that one more thing to do. Did sis-in-law just say she was plucking ticks from her 5-year-old’s scrotum? We were just there! Yuck, ticks are why I don’t eat crabs or the lobsters that everyone slurped down, while we watched in horror the water spewing from dismembered claws and tails, Em protesting (saying what we thought), “What IS THAT SMELLL!!??” What if I have Lyme disease? Nah, that round rash was a hive, short-lived, an allergic reaction to stress. Summer is supposed to be fun and life, not Lyme ticks and death and anxiety attacks and paramedics assessing the tightness in your chest and neighbors looking at you with bowed heads and donning kid gloves when you later bring over vine-ripened tomatoes before the harlequin beetles get them, before you travel and give up the last of your energy to enterovirius and three days of nothing making sense. I can write…this trip.
Copyright © 2015, Ilana Hulsey Rea. All rights reserved.