I have to look at the landscape of the blue-green world again. Just think: in all the clean beautiful reaches of the solar system, our planet alone is a blot; our planet alone has death. I have to acknowledge that the sea is a cup of death and the land is a stained altar stone. We the living are survivors huddled on flotsam, living on jetsam. We are escapees. We wake in terror, eat in hunger, sleep with a mouthful of blood.
Dillard does not paint a very comforting picture--our planet as an altar for blood sacrifice. She is right of course. Earth is the only planet in the solar system where death exists. Every minute of every day. Mars does not have Ebola. Jupiter never suffered a flu epidemic. Saturn has no documented cases of breast cancer on its surface. Our little blue marble is fatally unique.
I am not going to bore you with some poetic reflection on death. That's not my goal tonight. I want to write about one of my greatest fears tonight, and it's not the Grim Reaper. Granted, the Angel of Death does make my top ten list. However, it is not number one. That spot would be reserved for a much larger phobia: rodents.
My two Constant Readers know of my irrational loathing of our furry, disease-carrying friends. I have made no attempt to hide it. Last night, my wife heard something small and cunning in our bedroom, gnawing in the wall. In the past, I may have completely freaked, Covered the floors of my house with glue traps, mousetraps, rat poison. Instead, I have been a little more Obama-esque in my attack: strategic strikes. I have placed three traps in three separate rooms. I'm hoping that tomorrow morning, I will have caught the little hairy terrorists in my home.
So, Death will be paying a visit tonight, hopefully. Dead mouse, Happy Saint Marty.