There is a fly in my house.
The weather is warm, it’s bound to happen. A strident circular buzzing past your ear, and a swatting of your arm with an urgency as it tickles at your skin. The presence of this fleeting nuisance wouldn’t appear to make a dent in my day, except my kids are seemingly, absolutely, full-on terrified of flies.
“Mommy!”, they scream, “A fly! Get it!”.
“It’s just a fly”, I reassure. “It’s not going to hurt you.”
So they go on about their way, yet still continually on patrol. Like my daughter, who was watching the new Chipmunks movie for the hundredth time already while sucking ever so comfortably on a sucker. The kid lives the life. But then, there’s the fly. Buzzing it’s wings past in her sacred space. It takes a second to computer, but it’s about now when I hear another round of frightful shrilling for help.
As I lumber in, she’s holding out her sucker, almost devoured down to the stick.
Her face turns downward, the lip pouts. “The fly ate my sucker”, she relays in her most pitiful voice. “I need a new one.”
If she can’t get rid of the fly, might as well attempt to make it useful.