The invasion took place on Thursday about sunset.
Hundreds of tiny black ants invaded our kitchen. They had been well trained, marching in single file up and down our cream-colored cabinets. They split near the sink, one regiment headed toward the bread box, the other straight to our fresh fruit bowl.
I was ready, wiping them out with advanced technology: Bounty paper towels dampened with a deadly spray of Windex. I thought I had gotten them all. But no. One brave, tiny black ant kept marching forward. I saw him looking around, wondering where the rest of his team had gone.
Ready to smash, I decided the ambush would take place next to the yellow pepper shaker. However, as the little guy advanced, I remembered how I felt in earlier times full of fear and loneliness. I extended an index finger of peace. The little black ant climbed up onto my fingernail and I escorted him safely to the front yard.
Silly me. Somehow, I felt good deep inside. Later, I read that little black ants have a life span of four months. I’m hoping my new little buddy has three months of splendor in the grass.