āāIt wasnāt that long ago when Ethan was rarely bothered by mosquitos, but this year heās being eaten alive by themā.ā
I wrote that in my diary just a few weeks ago.
Thank you all for joining us today as we say āfarewellā to my beloved husband, Ethan ā¦. another innocent victim struck down in the prime of life by the dastardly mosquito. Ethan was attacked last week while bringing out the trash for pick-up in the morning; it was just a quick run to the curb but he didnāt have his EpiPen on him. Who knew just a few moments later heād be in cardiac arrest from anaphylactic shock?
Ethan was never bothered by mosquitos before and at first it was just an annoying surprise when he started developing a reaction a few months ago. The change in him was sudden and drastic and, as much as I will miss him, Iām so thankful his time of suffering was short.
Doctors canāt say whether this is a genetic trait, if our children Evan, Ella and Emily will develop this horrible allergy. To help our children realize the seriousness of this situation and to protect them, Ethan has left them his award-winning collection of swatters, his supply of EpiPens, his boxes of citronella candles, his stash of DEET and, of course, his journal.
When the allergic reactions started, Ethan began writing down his thoughts; as a poet, he wrote some of his best work over the recent months.He was most evocativein his agony.
In closing I would like to read one of his most poignant poems. Itās called āOde To The Mosquitoā. And please .ā¦ next time you see a mosquito, ask yourselves āWhat would Ethan do?ā“
Ode To The Mosquito
How can such a little thing Be so damn annoying? Flying round my arms and legs Itās bothersome and cloying.
Go away, you vile thing Iāll swat you with a stick. Youāre not welcome in my home You nasty little prick!
Who would think that tiny guy Could be such a bloody sucker? When he sticks his fangs in me I scream āYou Motherf*#+er!ā
You get me every time Iām out; My blood is extra sweet. Come and get me, little twit! Tonight Iām packing DEET!
Strange sensations came over me and I felt disoriented; I was sweating but I had chills, my vision was blurry, my tongue seemed huge in my mouth …. about three times its normal size …. my head felt like it was under water and my equilibrium was off, making me stumble and lose my balance, walking into the furniture and reeling yet even though I desperately wanted this goddess standing before me, I was unable to reach her.
For no apparent reason, I suddenly remembered when I got home from work earlier that day, I found a new drink in the refrigerator ā¦. 24 mini-cans of some beverage with exotic-sounding names such as Peach Bellini, Pineapple Mule, Mango Meringue, Grapefruit Paloma, Maui Sunset ā¦. and it was totally bewildering to me that I could remember those names but not where I was, who I was, who this woman was and yet I knew for a fact that I drank a couple of those cans of delightful nectar; could be thatās what was messing with my head …. making me be so unsure about some things but entirely certain about others …. not unlike taking quaaludes (the authentic Rorer 714s, not some cheap bootleg shit), dropping acid and then popping amyl nitrate all at the same time like some who-do voodoo cocktail.
I could hear this luscious woman talking but I was unable to reach her, to press her mind-bendingly magnificent body next to mine; her words were garbled and all I could make out was the name āAlexā which was very strange because my name wasnāt Alex .ā¦ or maybe it was .ā¦ I wasnāt sure of anything except that I definitely downed several cans of exquisite ambrosia with exciting names.
Holding on to the back of the sofa to keep myself from falling, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and I gasped; I did a doubletake because even though my vision was definitely wonky, it wasnāt so bad that I couldnāt see that I had suddenly transformed into a very attractive black man much like Michael B. Jordan when just half an hour ago I was my usual George Costanza look-alike!
Then without warning the womanās voice started morphing and began to sound familiar, kind of like my wife Alexis and when I looked up into the mirror I was no longer Michael B. Jordan ā¦. I was back to my old self, plain old Fred Johnson ā¦. and when I looked over at the woman, that voluptuous blonde with the perfect 44 double Ds had been replaced with my short, squatty wife of 37 years; well, that sucked and I quickly determined the only thing I could do was to drink more of those tasty beverages in mini-cans and pray my gorgeous fantasy girl would return but when I yanked open the door of the fridge, I was alarmed to see there was no more voodoo juice left and my heart sank because, as always, I couldnāt control my damn self, I had downed all the mini-cans of ecstasy and now it was just me and short, squatty Alexis.
It all came about one day in April, the 1st, to be exact. Newly divorced, I had recently moved into a house in the country and was enjoying my morning coffee on the patio. Birds of many different varieties flitted about the bushes and fruit trees in the yard next door. Even a couple of deer and a few rabbits were contentedly munching on the grass. I felt like I was in the middle of a Disney movie and wouldnāt have been at all surprised if the animals started talking and singing!
Looking around my property I couldnāt help but compare my landscaping to that of my neighbor, Marjorie. Hers was overflowing with every sort of plant imaginable while mine had a paltry number of pitiful-looking bushes on the verge of death. I began to envision my very own Garden of Eden. There would be shrubs and fruit trees and flowers everywhere, graceful statues and a tranquil water feature. My yard was going to be much better than Marjorieās!
Perhaps her ears were burning or it was just a coincidence but at that very moment Marjorie turned her head in my direction. Even from forty feet away I could see her beady eyes squinting at me. A rather obese woman, she was sweating profusely as she labored in her garden, her ridiculously small bonnet providing little shade to her balloon-like face. I waved to her but she didnāt wave back; either she didnāt see me or she chose to ignore me. Marjorie wasnāt all shits and giggles. Her husband left her for another woman (no big surprise there!) and her grown children lived far away. It seemed like her only joy in life was tending to her expansive garden.
Being a city boy, I knew nothing about gardening so I called the local nursery where one could get anything from a hose nozzle to a majestic pine tree. One of the landscapers came by a few hours later and walked through the property with me, making suggestions as we went along. I told him money was no object and gave him free reign to plant whatever he thought best ā the more impressive the better.
A few days later the nursery’s trucks arrived at my house. I caught a glimpse of Marjorie peeking through her curtains as my many purchases were unloaded and wheeled into my yard. The landscapers got to work planting everything from small flowering shrubs to walls of bamboo. They put in an arbor, birdbaths, several angelic statues as well as a Japanese-inspired water feature. Before my eyes the once barren wasteland was now a flourishing oasis. Take that, Marjorie!
My new bountiful yard only spurred her on to do even more work in her yard; every time one of us added something new, so would the other. It became a petty, childish game of tit for tat; who could create the most majestic personal Nirvana?
The next morning while brewing a cup of coffee, I was shocked to see a police car and ambulance outside Marjorieās house; she had suffered a fatal heart attack while working in her garden. Well, there certainly was no love lost between us but I never wished her any harm. She was a rotund woman; laboring day after day in her garden the way she did obviously put too much strain on her heart. I hoped whoever moved in next door would treat Marjorieās yard with the same tender loving care.
A few weeks later I woke up to the screeching sounds of power tools and heavy machinery. Unable to see through my dense bamboo hedge, I walked around the front to Marjorieās place; all her marvelous landscaping was being leveled! After everything was hauled away, a bulldozer began digging a huge hole. Week after week the work continued. The noise was enervating and I found myself spending more and more time working inside from my home office and away from my backyard utopia.
Finally one day in early August all was quiet; the work next door was complete. I decided it was time to fling wide the portals leading outside and enjoy an afternoon in the sun with the birds splashing in my water feature. My good friend Charlie stopped by and as we sat there enjoying a few ice cold Michelob Ultras, the pristine silence was broken by the shrieks, yelps and laughter of little children.
āDamnation! What now?ā I grumbled, rolling my eyes and craning my neck for a peek.
Charlie nearly choked on his beer. āDon’t tell me you donāt know!ā
āKnow what?ā I asked. I had no idea what he was talking about.
āYou dumb son of a bitch!ā Charlie howled. āDear old Marjorie left a will stating that her house and property were to be leveled and converted into a daycare facility, complete with playground, carousel and swimming pool.ā
āYou canāt be serious! What about zoning laws?ā I sputtered in disbelief. Visions of my plummeting property value made me groan. And Charlie laughed, clearly enjoying my distress a bit too much.
Was this some sort of twisted karma? I just wouldnāt let old Marjorie best me and now, what she couldnāt achieve in life she had accomplished in death. The ultimate victory was hers. I felt sick to my stomach.
āAlmost paradise.ā I sighed, a defeated man. Maybe everything that happened really was my fault after all.
Allison arrived home to discover, propped up against her front door, a mysterious package addressed to her but with no return address; in these dangerous times, opening a strange package with no identification is a reckless thing to do and Allison isnāt the type to take chances, no matter how curious she was about this unexpected delivery.
Unlocking the front door, Allison gave the package one last glance and went inside but she couldnāt think of anything other than the box on her porch and eventually gave up, heading back out; the more she looked at the box, the more one sticking point nagged at her: the print on the hand-written shipping label looked extremely familiar.
Suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, Allison realized the handwriting was her fatherās; a thousand thoughts flew through her mind as she tried to figure out what he could have sent her, finally coming to the conclusion that her dad must have packed away a few items for her which belonged to her late mother .ā¦ items of sentimental value ā¦. before he sold the old family house and settled into a senior living facility.
No longer wary, Allison excitedly picked up the package and brought it into the kitchen where she placed it on the counter and with a knife carefully followed the taped-up folds until she was able to open the box; resting atop the packing material was a small envelope with her name on it written in the same handwriting as the shipping label and inside the envelope was a note which read, āDear Ali, I remember how much you loved these and I wanted you to have them, maybe one day for your own little girlā ~ Love, Dad.
Puzzlement creased Allisonās forehead as she gently pushed away the bubble wrap to discover one of her favorite toys ā a miniature playground set complete with working swings, a seesaw, monkey bars, a slide and sandbox; there was even the little family with their pet dog which she had named Tess.
Now all smiles, Allison carried the pieces into the sunroom and placed them on the side table next to her chair near the window; they looked so happy and gay with the sun shining on them and Allison sighed, not at all surprised to feel a tear running down her cheek.
The Elephant's Trunk 