In the Morning Sun we Glisten

I have a love hate relationship with the box elder bugs. I hate when they fly past my ears. I hate when I find them crawling on my bed. I don't like to share my kitchen with them. I can't stand to find their dead bodies in my water cup and I hate the thought that they are always there, always watching.

But they remind me of this place. I can't think of the past year and a half without them. Loves come. Loves go. Best friends bond then marry. The grass grows, then dies (we never remember to water it). Even as the furniture, trees, and garden change, those bugs are constant. There isn't a day that I don't see one scurrying in one direction or another and although it irks me, it is that one constant in my life of the past year and a half that I can't ignore. It reminds me of the cycle of life.

Starting a new. Running. Falling.

Starting a new.

And when I can't take it any more, when all my memories crowd my mind and all my pasts threaten to become my present and my future, then I retreat to the basics. The shoes, the street, running. The bugs. They are always there.

You can always count on the box elders.