Sometimes I'd unsettle a swarm in the garden and they'd spill like liquid in all directions. They occasionally made their long jagged march across my kitchen wall or descended like a brown fog on the dog food. But here in Michigan, at my parent's house, there seems to be one lone ant; a big, waxy-looking black one.
I
noticed him for the first time a few weeks ago, struggling across the
pile of the beige living room carpet. It seemed a dry and miserable trip
so I scooped him up and rushed him out the door. But when I opened my
hand, he was gone. I assumed I'd dropped him along the way and I didn't
think about him again until I was sitting on the toilet
a few days later and saw him hurrying across the white bathroom
counter. He circumnavigated the sink then headed across the rough wall
paper toward the towel rack.
His
mission was a mystery to me, but his pace was clearly that of someone
with a plan. Other than stopping briefly to rub his abdomen, and another
time to rear up on his tiny hind legs to take the long view, he moved
with the same certainty on his circuitous return trip to the sink.
I
didn't grow up in this house, I've only known it as a guest. But
this is where I've brought my children every summer of their lives, it
is where they grew up and my parents grew old.
Since
that day in the bathroom watching the ant, I've been distracted by
things like my dad's four day stint in the cardiac care unit with
swollen purple feet and Sun Downer's syndrome, and
the near-impossible search for non-smarmy, bullshit-less advice for my
mom's Parkinson's and vision problems.
But now,
I just saw the ant again on that small nude sculpture in the den.
We'd been discussing the possibility that the den furniture might fit in
their new assisted living apartment. We haven't yet received the exact dimensions of their room. We hope it will accommodate the big brown chair, the coffee table and both small green couches, although we all secretly suspect that just one couch will fit, and even that will be a squeeze.
A moment later, the ant was hurrying across the brick of the hearth. Next, he veered off toward the blinds across the sliding glass door.
I
wonder if that ant has been at his thorough exploration every moment
between the times I'd noticed him. The den is a long way from the
bathroom. Was it a four day hospital stay away in ant distance? Had he
covered every room between the two with equal energy and focus? Does
that make him better prepared for moving day than the rest of us are?
When
I think back to these goodbyes, will I remember the deep, dry pile of
the beige carpet? The smoothness of the bathroom counter? The coolness
of the small white marble sculpture? The black waxy ant? My parents as
they once were?
xo Amy
