Well you shouldn't step on graves anyhow, is how I reason it.
There were always been several spots I avoided stepping my foot on when I was younger. These were usually places where insects had been killed. I always imagined that there was something left of it on the ground.
Like the spot outside the bathroom door, where we killed a cricket. All the juices that fled the now flattened body had left a ghostly cricket imprint on the floor, which lingered despite mom’s mopping and cleaning. I never told her about this, assuming that the cricket juice had simply become part of the tile.
Eleven years since I left Trinidad, and eons after the unfortunate cricket was killed, I still find myself taking longer strides to avoid stepping in these areas. Today I bent over to examine the place where the cricket stain had been left – surely it must have been removed by now? Mom can’t be that bad, no tile that obstinate to give up the glories of battle, albeit those of mom's slipper?
There, in the spot where it had been killed, was the perfect etch of a cricket. A groove in the floor, an fabrication anomaly, but a cricket all the same. Imagine that.
Tomorrow I’ll examine the rest of these places. Maybe starting with wood spider’s. Fourth step from the top, right hand corner, circa 1991, -92. It’s cathargic, and terrifying.
Like the spot outside the bathroom door, where we killed a cricket. All the juices that fled the now flattened body had left a ghostly cricket imprint on the floor, which lingered despite mom’s mopping and cleaning. I never told her about this, assuming that the cricket juice had simply become part of the tile.
Eleven years since I left Trinidad, and eons after the unfortunate cricket was killed, I still find myself taking longer strides to avoid stepping in these areas. Today I bent over to examine the place where the cricket stain had been left – surely it must have been removed by now? Mom can’t be that bad, no tile that obstinate to give up the glories of battle, albeit those of mom's slipper?
There, in the spot where it had been killed, was the perfect etch of a cricket. A groove in the floor, an fabrication anomaly, but a cricket all the same. Imagine that.
Tomorrow I’ll examine the rest of these places. Maybe starting with wood spider’s. Fourth step from the top, right hand corner, circa 1991, -92. It’s cathargic, and terrifying.
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