Sunday, March 1, 2015


I only cried when I thought of the squirrel.
Unfortunately, I thought of it all the way home.
Poor little squirrel.
Run down on the road in the prime of its life.
And by me.
A squirrel lover.
It was all too tragic.

And last summer someone tread upon the cricket my grandson had been playing with.
The cricket he loved.
It was one of us.
We just aren't sure who.
Also tragic.
He took it better than I did.
And once, long ago, my husband made the mistake of stepping on an ant.
On purpose.
It was my grandsons favourite ant.
If this all seems overly sentimental you are likely right.

We have weeds that sprout up tauntingly in the gravel walk way. I have been known to pour boiling water on them, a sort of medieval war on weeds. When I suggested this as a possible, legitimate technique, I was scolded by a woman who asked me in a shocked and trembling voice, how I felt about the worms and bugs I was annihilating so barbarically.
Now THAT is overly sentimental.

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