We wake to a plague of flies. My husband walks around with a rolled-up magazine in hand, ninja-like, the way he holds his body and mind steady to successfully kill them a form of meditation. I stand wherever I am, look around me and count them, my disgust and anger mounting as the number rises. Where on earth are they coming from? I think of my uncle's house, back when he was a farmer, how it was always overrun with flies, how we judged him. As flies alight on a dirty coffee mug, on the refrigerator door, the smudgy bathroom mirror, each one underscores my own feelings of inadequacy. They must be eradicated. I want to tell the truth as precisely and simply as I can about each moment, believing there will be beauty in the accuracy and clarity of the telling. I want to believe there is beauty here, amidst these constellations of accusing flies.
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