A Bubble

Tick

A bubble on my ankle, slightly red, hard to see. Itchy. Soft and squishy. Immediately I think it’s probably a tick. Engorged and floppy, ready to be picked. Or a worm, burrowed, safe and warm, or spider eggs buried against the bone. Thursday spent standing in tall grass and weeds, in brush and trees. Just as likely, it’s poison ivy. A gentle squeeze, it bursts, it rips, it oozes, drips. The itching spreads, my hands, my head, Each blemish explored, prodded then picked. A bump on my neck, raw from checking, is it a freckle or something more? My bubble drains. It’s damp and yellow; it dries on my skin in a jaundiced stain. Nothing seems to be alive, spreading, creeping, threatening my life, my thoughts, my brain.

18 thoughts on “A Bubble

  1. Oh my gosh, since I have started hitting the trails I have left with my share of ticks. When I see one, I feel like there are at least ten on me I do not see. That totally messes with my brain. Then, the other day sitting watching Declan swim, a wasp got me on the bottom of my thigh. It hurt so bad – but – I had to act cool and all. But that darn experience has haunted me. I can’t sit still and am on constant vigilance. I can so relate to this one!

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    • I pretty much never get ticks. It amazes me. There’s a part of the battlefield I run across with tall grass that brushes up as high as my shirt. I never find any ticks after that. Sophie and Susan hiked it recently and they were plucking off ticks for hours. I haven’t been stung in a few years so it’s sort of out of my mind what it’s like. The last time was eight stings though. I’ve met my quota for a few years.

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