One of my favorite movie lines come from Ghostbusters (the first one.  Really, I draw the line there).  Dr. Peter Venkman returns from yet another ghostbusting mission, and his secretary Janine Melnitz replies to something he says, "It's a sign."

Dr. Venkman says, "Yeah, a going out of business sign."

Then the EPA shuts them down, ghosts take over Manhattan, and the Staypuffed Marshmallow Man is about to unleash his terror on the terrain.

Last night, I wondered about signs.  I don't think I believe in them.  I don't believe in portents.  Dead chicken bones in the street, a tine-less fork facing north, a squashed pumpkin on the porch?  Stuff that hasn't made it long in this world only.

But yesterday, I happened to walk over a hornets' nest in the backyard of my new home.  There I was, merrily picking Meyer lemons to make Michael a sorbet with, and I thought I felt a sting.  A mosquito?  No, another prick, a sting, a bite.  I started doing one of those dances that you see in cartoons, the person flapping and slapping and running around, lemons going everywhere.  I'm screaming, and of course, I run into the house to take off my pants, letting free about ten hornets that fly around, one stinging Michael.  Michael and I slapped them all dead. 

And there I was, pantless on the third floor, 11 bites on my legs.He patted off my pants, killed the rest of the hornets.  We gathered up the lemons and went home to our second home.  Or our first home for now.

I wondered if it was a sign.  A going out of business sign.

But later, I realized that it was just life, and it was part of life that I now share with Michael.  I have had other hornet stories with other people.  My former spouse attracted hornets as though he were raw hamburger (I guess we are raw meat).  I'd hear him yelling from the backyard, "Open the door!"  I would stand there, door open, and he would race in, carrying the rake.  I'd slam the door, the hornets slapping against the glass.

My youngest son loved to play in the hose was a toddler, naked, running around, and once a hornet stung him in a most delicate, horribly tender place.  He sat in an ice bath in the kitchen sink for a while, screaming his head off.

Now, I have this hornet story, one that is part of a new life.  I would rather have not had this narrative play out at all, but not having narratives play out means there is no life to be had.  It's a sign that Michael and I are in this all together, hornets and all.

Jessica