There were ants, ants everywhere. I was so upset. Not because there were ants in my house. Not because of the damage they had surely done behind the wall plaster. But because I knew an exterminator would have to come. I would be responsible for the death of hundreds- perhaps thousands- of innocent lives. I ran over a rabbit once, and as I drove on through the night, tears streaming down my cheeks, I remember thinking to myself, Let this be a learning experience. I know now that I am the kind of girl who cries over dead rabbits. I thought of that rabbit as I contacted my rental agency, asking them to set up the appointment with the Bug Man. If I wept over one rabbit, how in the world would I be able to survive a thousand dead ants? I considered taking the day off work. I would need time to grieve.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. He came while we were out, leaving behind a friendly note and no trace of his massive extermination. I had been told that I may still see them for a few days but their numbers would dwindle and they would eventually disappear completely as soon as the queen had died. I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I had no choice. After a few days they were gone. I consoled myself with the knowledge that my house was safe now, and I tried not to think about the rabbit.

But- and I can barely bring myself to type this- they seem to be coming back. It’s not the same as before, there are no jolly fat scouts running hither and yon across the wood floors, no spry little sentinels marching the perimeter of the living room, protecting their precious Queen Mother. These ants… there is something wrong with these ants. They are confused. Yesterday I found one in the toilet, one in the cat’s water dish, and one running in circles in the hallway. The day before there was one rather large fellow who spent an hour in front of my fireplace, wiggling but rooted to the spot, like a mime caught in his invisible box. At one point I crouched down on my knees to examine him closely. He looked fine (six legs, two antennae, large, wood-chewing jaws all intact) but he was acting so strange. He kept wiping at his face with his two front legs, first one leg then the other, back and forth, wipe, wipe, wipe. I grabbed a sprig of lavender from a nearby vase and poked at him gently, which seemed to make him angry but he still kept on with the wiping. And then I thought, oh god, is he blind? Am I responsible for blinding an entire colony of ants? Is that how this is done? Are they left to wander aimlessly, following chemical trails as far as they can but losing their way after all, doomed to stumble through a world of darkness until some hungry robin comes along at breakfast-time? How is this okay? How does the Bug Man sleep at night, knowing what he has done? I scooped up this blind little ant and placed him gently on the front porch, fraught with grief over the terrible state of everything. I killed a rabbit, blinded a thousand ants, and also I keep forgetting to feed the hummingbirds who are probably all dead now, as well. I hoped that this one ant, at least, would make it. That he would find a kind-hearted beetle who could lead him gently through life, that they would fall in love even though all odds were against them, and live forever in some cozy little burrow under the rose bush in my front yard. But the next day he was still on the porch, curled up and crispy-looking, not moving at all. I am a horrible, awful person.

And what to do, what to do? They are still wandering, little lost souls, here and there among the coloring books and pink sparkly flip-flops. They are not well, and this is desperately sad. Who do I call now? Do I bring the Bug Man back with his death machine, to finish them off completely? Can I call a priest to bless them and send them to the great beyond washed clean of all their sins? Would a priest even do that sort of thing? I am reminded of a line from a poem that I love- it goes like this: I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone. I know I shouldn’t eat oatmeal alone, and I know I shouldn’t fret over the immortal souls of ants, but I do these things anyway. And I’m not even Catholic. But I bet Jesus would never call an exterminator.

We have had weeks of unrelenting heat; thick, humid days that hit record temperatures and left every living thing limp and wilted. On the hottest day, a brush fire burned just north of my neighborhood. It was too hot to close the windows against the smoke, and I kept thinking how appropriate it all was. It made so much sense for the steaming, heavy evening air to smell like fire. I bathed the girls in cool water that night and put them to bed with wet hair and damp cloths laid across their chests. Everyone I know had been complaining about the weather for days, but I loved it. Even on that hot, burning night I loved it. It felt like being inside of something.

It seems like that is the great journey of my life, this search for someplace warm and safe. Not even my memories will do. I seem to only remember the sad things. Everything has always been so terribly frightening. I remember reading A Wrinkle In Time when I was very young, and being much too scared to sleep. I also knew that I couldn’t get up and find my parents because they would be angry that I had gotten out of bed. I remember laying stiffly in my bed for hours, too frightened to stay there and too frightened to leave, my heart pounding in the darkness until I finally fell asleep. Sometimes life feels like that: an endless stretch of lonely, black night. I used to conjure up images of things that would comfort me, beings who loved me very much and would make me feel safe, like the fairy in The Velveteen Rabbit who finally made the sawdust bunny Real. I still do that sometimes. I imagine my grandmother (who died shortly after Babs was born) watching me from wherever she is now, sending me waves of softness and love. It amazes me sometimes how separate we all are from each other, each of us wanting so much to be loved and each of us trying so hard to do it all on our own.

The clouds are back now, and the air outside is cool and clean. We spent the day at home yesterday with a fire in the fireplace and applesauce muffins baking in the oven; lovely long hours of dozing on the couch with fat cats and little girls. Pamela was with us, and Zibbit crawled into her lap and buried her face in my friend’s neck. “Pamby,” Zibbit said, “you smell just like Mommy.” I wanted to cry just then. I wanted to hold my daughter’s face in my hands and explain to her how very, very lucky she is to have so many people that she loves, who love her so completely in return. But she’ll understand when she’s older.

My friend Pamela and I went to see 500 Days of Summer last night (an absolute gem- see it if you can). We didn’t get home until very late, so she crashed at my place and I drove her to work this morning. My gas tank had been empty since yesterday afternoon so we were on our way to the gas station, expecting the car to sputter and die at any moment, when the light at the intersection in front of us turned yellow. I had enough time to stop- I should have stopped- but I also knew that if I waited at a red light the chances of us making it to the gas station would go from slim to none. So I accelerated, flying through the intersection like a bat out of hell, pushing breakneck speeds of 15 or 20 miles an hour. The light turned red as I drove through the intersection and I glanced to my right just as my car passed in front of a cop. He flicked on his lights and swung around behind me. If I had been prepared and filled my car up yesterday, I may have tried to outrun him and with Thelma in the seat beside me make a desperate run for the border, but I wouldn’t have made it a mile before the gas tank was completely drained and then I would have had to call my mother and tell her I was in jail. So instead I turned onto a side street and parked my car, found my license and registration, and quickly hid the parking ticket that was on my windshield last night after we got out of the movie.

A slight, sweet-looking man in his early fifties walked up to my car, peered in the window and told me I had been pulled over for accelerating as the light was turning red. I handed him all of my documents (”Ma’am, I don’t need to see your emissions report.”) and hoped he would forget to ask me for proof of insurance, since it’s still sitting in an envelope on the kitchen counter. He didn’t forget, and I sat in the front seat of my car drowning in shame, anxiety, and resignation as he walked back to his patrol car to look up my records. Pamela and I waited nervously, joking about what he would say when he came back to the car. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” we imagined him saying, “but it says here that your marriage failed and you never pay your electric bill on time. The state of Washington has issued a warrant for your arrest, claiming you are a Grandiose Failure at Life and a Menace to Society.” Ha ha ha, we said. Wouldn’t that be rich.

Instead, something very strange happened. He came back to my window with an open booklet in his hands and proceeded to run through a list of fines. Driving without proof of insurance, $550. Failure to update my drivers license with my new address, $124. Running a red light, $140. $814. Eight hundred and fourteen dollars. But he didn’t have a ticket in his hand.

“The reason I am only going to give you a warning this time, Ms. Larson, is because you have an excellent driving record. No infractions in the last five years. Frankly, I was surprised. I was expecting to find some. But you’re going to need to take care of these issues immediately. Are you her sister?” He asked, looking at Pamela.

“Practically,” she replied, and laughed (we’re often made fun of for being joined at the hip).

“Well, make sure she takes care of everything right away, OK?” Pamela said she would, then I thanked him and drove away, hands shaking and stomach twisted into knots. We drove in silence for a moment or two and then both burst out laughing, because what else can you do at a time like that.

“He said I have an ‘excellent driving record!’” I gasped, clutching my belly as I giggled. “I think that’s the nicest compliment I have ever been given.”

After I dropped Pamela off at work I drove to my favorite coffee shop and sat there for an hour, nursing my quad caramel sauce Americano and trying to make sense of the morning. It wasn’t even 9 am yet. I don’t think it’s fair to be thrust into such an overwhelming situation before one has had the chance to really wake up yet, or at least have their coffee. I have felt overwhelmed a lot lately, a feeling Pamela and I describe to be like that famous black and white photo of the men on a girder, casually eating lunch while their feet dangle 69 floors above the streets of New York. Everything seems so strangely suspended in mid air; each day feels like a held breath. I think I am supposed to be learning something, following some sort of guidance, but I’m having a hard time figuring out what it is. It seems as though someone is holding a giant road sign directly in front of my face, and I can see that there are names and directions and exact mileages printed there, it probably references this morning’s policeman somehow, but the problem is everything is written in Russian. And I don’t know how to read Russian.

My friend Daniel sent me a message last night that said, “‘Be determined, be stubborn, endure, hang on, hold fast, keep at it, stick to it, pursue, persist, press on’ reads the back of the shirt in front of me.” I asked him if he thought it was some sort of sign. “I had to translate it from Russian,” Daniel said. “I almost missed it.”

I definitely just met the most fantastic kid on the planet. His name is Eliot, and he is nine years old.

Eliot (looking at all the hair on the floor): Wouldn’t it be weird if you pulled the hair that you cut off and I could still feel it?
Me: Kind of like Phantom Limb syndrome?
Eliot: What’s that?
Me: It’s something that can happen if you lose your leg in a car accident or something. Even though the leg isn’t there anymore people can sometimes still feel it hurting or itching.
Eliot: If I had to lose any of my senses it would definitely be pain.
Me: But pain is useful! How would you know if you accidentally touched a hot stove or something? By the time you figured it out it would be too late and your hand would have burned off.
Eliot: Who cares? I have another one.

*

Me: So, when you grow up and become a famous soccer player, will you still let me cut your hair?
Eliot: Probably. If you’re still alive.

*

Me: Will you come hang out with me every day?
Eliot: I don’t think that would work with my schedule.
Me: That’s unfortunate.
Eliot: Isn’t it?

*

Me: Where did you come from, kid?
Eliot: California.