The wasp

April 5, 2017

At the bottom of the hill, a wasp skittered across my windshield. In the carseat over my shoulder, my son muttered about a train, but his voice slowed as the legs of the wasp touched glass, one foot, then another, then another. Its stinger undulated as it crossed from right to left, and I held my breath though I knew all my windows were rolled up tightly.

The wasp bounced off my driver’s side window, then careened off into the world, where it might threaten someone, or it might not. Inside the car, we remained safe, privileged, behind glass.

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