Pesticide

I smashed a mosquito in my bathroom, clapped it between two palms. Momentary satisfaction before slight karmic worry.

“Sorry, buddy. No room for parasites.” And I went to wash my hands. 

Having observed life taken suddenly (overturned Chevy, moonlit highway, winter of 2004) and slowly (mother dying, dining room-turned-hospice, summer of 1997) I am loathe to be the arbiter of existence. A healthy respect for life has always been my foundation. Until we are scientifically certain that even the tiniest bugs feel absolutely nothing, carry no hopes and desires, cannot experience love, I will spare them execution—save the ones who bite me first. My moral compass is maybe not completely calibrated but it steers me toward some degree of satisfaction. 

On hot, cloudy afternoons like this one, however, I get lost in worry. Visions of my inevitable death waft forward: accosted suddenly by a handgun-wielding addict at a southern ATM; slammed into like a linebacker by an errant taxi on Park Avenue South; frail and distant in a stark white hospital room, surrounded by flowers and a smattering of family and friends, lucky bastards still firmly bound to life. 

No matter how it eventually happens, my concern is that come the great expanse of light, I will depart this realm and just before the curtain falls, a booming voice will resonate, unmistakable. 

And it will say, “Sorry, buddy. No room for parasites.”