It must have been a Sunday when I was stung by the wasp near my right eye.
My brother and I were swinging off the branches of the weeping willow tree that hung over the fence at the back of the yard. We would grab fistfuls of branches, give them a tug to see if they'd support our weight, and swing back and forth over a ditch filled with all manner of rubbish — leaves, tree branches, rusty fence posts and lead pipes, the sort of things you'd expect to give you tetanus.
We'd swing on the willow, doing our best Tarzan cries, before crashing into the neighbour's chain-link fence, where we'd push off, making it back to the bank of the ditch where we started.
I don't remember seeing a wasps nest, but it's no surprise it was there. I don't remember the moment it got me, but I remember running to the house crying. My mom, the nurse, watching my face start to swell up.
The next thing I remember, was being bundled into the front seat of my dad's '81 Corolla, racing up the street. Sitting on my mom's lap with a homemade ice pack pressed to my face, there was no fear or anxiety. With my mom's arms wrapped around me, I could never feel anything could ever be wrong.
I wonder if all kids being held close by their mothers feel the same way.
I can't remember my little brother in the car and wonder if he'd been left at the neighbour's.
We hadn't made it halfway up the street when my mom peeked under the ice pack. The swelling had subsided, an emergency apparently averted.
I remember feeling disappointed when she told my dad to turn the car around. Going to the hospital at that age was an adventure, one I could use a lot less of these days.
Eventually, I found myself sitting on the living room rug in our basement watching CHiPs on our black-and-white TV — for those of you who remember what that was.
I'm sure there was a glass of milk and some of my mom's homemade cookies. They're a staple in our diets even today.
My mom could say I love you in so many ways, but I think baking has always been her favourite.
After a while, we were permitted to go back outside.
That's where I found my father standing at the back of the yard on the edge of the ditch, gas can in hand, smoke and flames rising.
My father enraged, the wrath of hell being directed at a nest of creatures that didn't know they had done anything wrong.
A father seemingly willing to burn down the neighbourhood to avenge his son over something as innocuous as a sting by a solitary insect.