All that remains...

I was writing the email to my kids which follows, as I stepped on the treadmill this morning. There is no small irony in the fact that I was unable to walk and thumb-type at the same time. My workout waited until I pressed the ‘Send’ button.

It struck me then, like an errant piece of cardboard upside the head, that if a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, perhaps this is a signal that my writer’s block is on its last leg. A literal bit of irony as this is the first thing that I have written, beyond a postcard or an Instagram caption, in over a year.

I’ve taken it a step further and added the crime scene photo that inspired the title at the end of the post. Thanks for reading.

To: the usual suspects
Subject: It was seeming weird

To not send something to you first thing in the morning now that my Lenten observance is at end.

Then I opened an email about guided meditation...

“A guided meditation uses the sound of a person's voice to direct you through an inner process of relaxing your body and shifting your mind's focus. The voice may be a person in the room with you or a recording--even something downloaded from the internet--and it is generally spoken in soothing, soft tones.”

The article went on to say, “Whether you are familiar with guided meditation or you are a beginner, being guided gives you the opportunity to benefit from the insight of others.” And, “Guided meditation allows you to learn from others in a way that is similar to ones used by ancients the world over.”

This all made me feel like maybe I had invented guided meditation, seeing as I’m ancient and I’m pretty sure I’m at least an occasional voice in your head.

Anyway, the only thing I can give you to meditate on today is an illustration of my deeply ingrained thought processes, which may or may not have influenced your development. My apologies.

You’ll recall the story of the cockroach in my first apartment. The first cockroach...the one I understood to be a cockroach on a primitive level, since I had heretofore been blessed not to have real world knowledge. And how I slayed the cockroach with a package of tomatoes and using said tomato package, unceremoniously guided its body to the drain in the kitchen sink, whereupon I turned on the floodgates of the faucet and flushed it to a watery grave.

Some part of my brain remembered that cockroaches had survived when dinosaurs hadn’t, so I followed up with a pot of boiled water in case the room temperature tap water, like that ancient meteor hit, was survivable.

Now, y’all know if there were cockroaches in this house I would not be living here. I have, however, made exceptions for the occasional centipede.

Last night I was throwing some laundry in. Workout clothes and a fleece. I was in the process of tossing in a sheet of detergent (yay for Earthy friendly detergent sheets) when a centipede scurried across my fleece as it sat in the tub of the machine!

(My skin crawls as I type this.)

What to do?! I mean cause normally I wash the delicates on cold but I was thinking maybe a centipede could survive a delicate cycle.

Age old conundrum.

I opted for delicates on heavy using warm water.

When the cycle was done, I gingerly approached the washer. Lifted the lid. Scanned for movement. Sensing none, I used the universal pincer hold to pick up a corner of the fleece with the tippy tips of my right thumb and forefinger, slowly pulling it up and out of the washer.

I held it over the floor...and shook.

And out dropped a wholly formed, freshly washed centipede.

And me without my shoes.

We’ll never know if he was an arthropod in an arrested state of animation or just a well turned out corpse.

I dared not grab a tissue to pick him up and risk him reanimating in my hand. It was a super earth friendly detergent sheet in his spa treatment, not toxic chemicals, I probably didn’t have to worry about him morphing into a horror flick monster and attacking me when I came to empty the dryer...but could I take that chance?

No. No I could not.

From the corner of my eye I spotted the cardboard insert from a recently purchased set of sheets.

The coup de centipede. His Waterloo of boiling water, as it were.

I mopped up his remains with a paper towel and deposited him in the trash.

Don’t think I didn’t look to make sure that paper towel was still in the trash this morning.

And now that I’ve shifted your mind’s focus, enjoy these scrabbled eggs and have a great day.

Love,

Mom

Not only was I without my shoes, but without my camera. I couldn’t run to get it for fear the miscreant might shake off his lethargy and skedaddle while I was gone. So I dropped the cardboard bomb.

I discovered all that remains this morning.

that centipede doesn’t have a leg to stand on.