trauma

When I was a child, flowers surrounded our house. Everywhere I turned. In all directions. Both cultivated and wild. Rose bushes under the kitchen windows. Climbing roses supported by trellises behind the house. Lilac bushes along the driveway. And then there were the flowers that simply grew wild throughout the yard. Flowers which I would later identify as weeds. Although at the time, I didn't discriminate. Dandelions. Whose bright yellow caps gave way to tufts of tiny feathers longing to be blown into the wind. Buttercups. Those reliable predictors of one's affinity for butter when held under the chin. And prickly purple globes whose name I never learned. All part of the outdoor tapestry of summer.

And with the flowers, came the insects. They didn't discriminate either. Every flower provided an attraction. They feared nothing in their path. But while I didn't fear them, my relationship with the visiting insects was one of resentment and grudging tolerance. They represented an obstacle to my full enjoyment of summer. I tried to ignore them and they usually ignored me. With the exception of one angry bee, who delivered a painful message to my arm. And with the further exception of the horseflies and deerflies. Which seemed to derive great pleasure from my irritation.

Their irritation wasn't great enough to keep me indoors, however. Summer was all too brief. And so it was that I found myself outside one typically warm summer morning. In my pajamas. Wandering amongst the roses and the buttercups and the patches of morning dew. Relishing the sensation of my bare feet swishing through the grass. Hands in my pockets. Because pockets were essential. Even in pajamas.

It was in one of those pockets that morning that my fingers encountered something, at once both strange and familiar. Crinkly. Like a candy wrapper. Although I couldn't recall putting a wrapper into that pocket. Nevertheless, with candy figuring prominently in my life, it was certainly a possibility. I worked it through my fingers. It was small and easily pliable. Definitely a candy wrapper. Finally curious, I pulled it out. Wondering which of my many favourites it might have been. Wondering what delectable treat I had devoured and just as quickly forgotten.

It was when my hand emerged from the pocket that I learned the truth. The contents of my hand conjured no memories of chocolate or peppermint or toffee. It wasn't a candy wrapper at all. It was a grasshopper. Or rather, it had once been a grasshopper. Small and crinkly and pliable. And now more than a little slimy after passing repeatedly through a small child's fingers. I was horrified. I ran toward the house. Anxious to rid myself of the poor creature's green oily remains.

The memory, unfortunately, would prove much more difficult to erase. So rather than engage in a futile attempt to erase it, I've decided to Halloween-ize it. And find a place for it in this year's haunt.