Dearest Rachel –
It’s not like Lars and me to go walking through the woods on a Friday. Generally, we tend to prefer earlier in the week, since it allows us to reschedule and postpone things if necessary; waiting until the last day of the week leaves us with no options, should something come up, such as bad weather.
Then again, there already had been a combination of bad weather and scheduling conflicts in the days prior to this – mostly on his end, but I also nixed the idea of walking on Thursday, since the regularly schedule meal at the folks’ place with Daniel would preclude our usual late lunch – so this could have been considered a case of the final option being what was left to us for the week. At least the day was warm and sunny; enough such that I found myself staring at a brightly sunburnt face last evening after getting home.
Now, you might surmise that the title here might have something to do with the re-routing we had to deal with during yesterday’s walk, but you would at best be only peripherally correct. On the contrary, you might have read about my issues with my left ankle over the last couple of weeks; a smoother path would actually be easier on it than the uneven terrain of the hiking paths we usually traverse. And indeed, by the time we were done, while I was footsore from covering the entire length of our normal route, all the way up to Willow Road and back, it was no worse a pain than what Lars was complaining about by that time. Then again, his ankle (or maybe it’s his hip?) is better suited by treading on the grass at the edge of either path; walking on the asphalt does him none of the favors it does me.
No, the annoyance of our route was a little more literal than all that. About halfway back from where we turn around and get back, Lars paused to strip off his shirt. He’d felt something between it and his skin, and felt the need to check it out. Sure enough, he’d shaken out what looked to be a tick at first glance, but on closer inspection (not that either of us wanted to closely inspect such a creature if it happened to be what we thought it was; it simply refused to leave his hand without a violent shake to dislodge it) proved to be slightly larger than one ought to be. Moreover, it had wings, which most ticks don’t, as I understand it.
The rest of the way back, we would occasionally pause to check each other over. The large amounts of standing water, from the overflown bank of the river, serves as a breeding ground for insect fauna, some of which hatches hungry – and we’re a convenient food source. I think I caught one or two on Lars thereafter, but he never found anything on me; guess the bugs don’t consider me as tasty as him.
However, once I got home, comfortably ensconced in the recliner at the side of my bed, I felt an odd itch on the back of my leg – and when I reached to scratch it, I realized that bump on my skin hadn’t been there before; I’d brought home a stowaway. Fortunately, as with Lars’ hangers-on, it hadn’t gotten so far as to sink its jaws into me, so I proceeded to drop it in wastebasket next to me, take the bag out (despite it being only half full), and drop it in the bin outside of the house. Problem solved – or so I thought.
With this minor emergency apparently dealt with, I returned to my seat in the bedroom, dropping myself into the recliner with a sigh of relief… only to feel a small, nagging sensation at the base on my spine. I don’t know if I’d been carrying two ticks on me this whole time and didn’t notice until now, or if this one had just escaped from the bag like Houdini, and was back to torment me like Jerry the mouse after Tom the cat had thought he’d dealt with him once and for all.
This time, though, I wasn’t taking that chance. I know you generally made a point of capturing any insects that were hapless enough to wind up in the house and releasing them out of doors, but I also know you made an exception to that mercy with mosquitos; I would assume that you would apply similar justice toward their fellow blood-suckers. I dropped this one (or the same one, but this time) into the toilet, and watched as I flushed it down. It’s a cruel fate, I suppose, but we can’t abide their presence here.
Gone it may have been at that point, but it was not forgotten. For the rest of the night, whether in the chair or in bed, I found myself plagued with pinprick sensations here and there on my body, as though there was yet another of its fellows crawling around on me. Each time I would reach to check, there was nothing there, not even a welt, but the paranoid sensation wouldn’t go away for the longest time, popping up sporadically at (and on, as if it were teleporting over me) various points until I was literally too weary to care anymore and I lost consciousness.
Even at this point in the morning, washed and dressed for the day, I can still sense the occasional pinpoint; the ghost of my little visitor haunting me… bugging me, if you’ll forgive the pun. It’s the weirdest sensation, and not at all pleasant.
There feels like this should be an allegory of something bigger and more important, and maybe there is, but I can’t determine what it might be at the moment. The little irritation is bad enough for the moment that whatever larger thing it might represent escapes my mind. Assuming this is true, perhaps I should be grateful for the distraction. On the other hand, if not, I’m getting bent out of shape both by this now-imaginary bug crawling over me and some fictional concern that I mentally picture looming over me.
In which case, along with asking you to continue watching over me, honey, I should ask you to dissipate these thoughts and concerns that surround me. And wish me well going forward, as I’m clearly in need of it.
Letters to Rachel 