The sun was setting when, after dancing around the lawn and stripping off my clothes, I fell in the fire ant bed. I was two.
Because of the angle of light, my mom said she couldn’t see what was wrong. She could only hear me screaming. She saw a shadow moving up my body and when she touched me the ants crawled onto her fingers. Dad rushed me to the bathtub where he threw me in a nearly drowned me. Then he threw me in the car–no car seats in those days–and rushed me to the hospital.
The doctor gave me shots and discovered I had ant bites outside my body and in. The clothes-flinging-in-the-sunset days ended.
Some days writing feels a bit like that.