Moments in memory

Up on the 19th floor rooftop of my brother's building, a tiny insect positioned itself near my left collarbone. It was tiny. Much smaller than a fly, more subtle than a grain of rice. Except its grasshopper green was vibrant against my white t-shirt, like those imaginary crystals in snow.

I hate bugs, so I reached for my copy of the Turtle Diaries to flick it off, keeping my eyes on it during the entire arm-reach-motion less it moves and I accidentally squish it and stain my shirt with bright green goop. I must have blinked at some point with the book in my hand, because the moment I was armed and ready for launch - ZAP - it was gone. Just like that. And I had been watching it the entire time.

This reminded me of the time when I was around seven or eight, at my grand parents' summer house. I was walking up the outside stairs from my grandfather's office to the kitchen, when I came across an iguana -- or what I assumed to be an iguana, I'm still not sure what it was -- whose size took up an entire step. I had a Bichon at the time, a pretty plump one too. And this pseudo iguana was definitely bigger than my dog.

I surrendered to what my child-mind portrayed as a baby dragon guarding the path that led to the kitchen, and took a detour through the inside of the house.

No one else ever saw it. I wish I had a picture of it but I don't. And now, years later, my mental image of this iguana seems to have strongly bound itself up with my mental projection of a dragon. If I had seen this iguana today, would I still find its size spectacular? Or maybe it was in fact a spectacular sight, but I'm left with no credentials to back it up.

It's become a very eerie memory.