"Plotting Murder?"

Dark dirt mounds litter my yard, evidence of a mole or gopher infestation. Mini mountains crest my lawn like volcanic islands being born. My landscaping beds, garden flowers, and plants have been frequent summer snacks for the rodent population. In a fit of murderous critter-rage last night, I spotted two entry tunnels – a rare find—and rushed into our garage for the gopher traps. They weren’t there. 

My plastic bag of dirt with the two metal gopher traps was nowhere to be seen. Overturning tent tarps, lifting bocce balls, and sliding garden supplies to the side produced no results. The yellow poison pellets were gone too. 

Spewing poison myself, I spoke impatiently to my husband, and then to my son. Racing against time, I grabbed my car keys and wallet, and squealed out of the driveway, muttering to myself. 

The sun sank lower on the horizon, and the orange box superstore glowed in the twilight as I parked. In front of me, a veiled matron ambled calmly through the doors, wrapped in muted blacks and greys, except for one bedazzled zebra and fuchsia purse that matched the black in her head covering. Pink spots in her shoes poked out from the long robe, and I grinned in quiet connection with her. Her son and husband walked gently beside her, intent on their projects as well. 

Inside I strode to the critter aisle, scanning the shelves for my traps. My poisoned words echoed back to me. The sharpness of my words sliced in. Wounds and gashes could be dealt so quickly. Items in hand I retraced my steps to the front of the store, scanned my purchases, noted the sharpness of the prongs, and quietly walked out to my car. 

Tangerine, rose and grey-violet streaked the sky, layering high. Crimson trees stood tall against yellow, blue and rust backdrops. Changing gears, I pulled into my driveway, mounted the stairs, kissed my man, and apologized to my towering son. “I’m sorry for spewing poisonous words. My anger is at the moles and at having to buy the traps again, not you. Will you forgive me?” 

Darkness fell refreshingly cool as we read cardboard instructions and tramped across tunneled grass together. 

Linking with Ann, Duane, and Emily, I count gifts, note sunsets, and chronicle stories of grace and redemption.