Sarah and I were on the front steps this morning, watching for hot-air balloons. (It’s the weekend of the Gatineau Hot-Air Balloon Festival). The sun was up and shining. The day was clear and beautiful. I felt rested and happy to be sitting on the step chatting with my youngest daughter.
I took a swig of coffee. Hey, I thought, what’s this in my mouth? I immediately thought it was a largeish crumb of bread. But then again, it was rather large to be a crumb, maybe it was a piece of crust. It was mushy and undefined like a piece of wet toast. But how could a piece of bread get into my coffee?
And that’s when I fished the dead fly out of my mouth. I threw it into the front garden with the kind of energy that comes with absolute disgust.
I looked at Sarah. “I ALMOST SWALLOWED A DEAD FLY,” I said, feeling more revolted with each passing second.
“What’s that on your tongue?” she asked.
I frantically licked the cuff of my hoodie, hoping to wipe off whatever offensive pieces of fly corpse were on it. I looked at my cuff. There was a leg. And who knows what other microscopic fly material.
Sarah started singing the refrain of “there was an old lady who swallowed a fly” while I sat there in total disgust.
“Don’t worry mom,” she assured me. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you Sarah,” I said while taking a long drink of my coffee to wash away whatever was left in my mouth. “That makes me feel a lot better.”
