The Trouble with Nature

At first, when the rivers rose and buildings at the bottom of the hill began to sink out of sight, the ants stayed in the yard, moving their eggs to higher ground till there was nowhere to go but the house, and the six-lane egg-moving ant highways wound up the walls like some newly imported vine that grew even faster than kudzu. In a day or two, a few scout ants ventured inside. After they found the cat food in the sunroom, The Cat refused to go downstairs. Soon there were ants almost anywhere in the house one looked: inside the bedroom slippers, between clean plates in the cupboard or sitting on the computer screen like extra cursors.

By the time Mom agreed something needed to be done, the ants were covering the kitchen floor like a rug.
“A pretty color, actually,” Mom said. “Look at all those shades, all the way from soot to chocolate. I once saw a designer cover a living room wall with moss. You know the show I’m talking about? “While You Turned Your Back?” The moss was green when she put it in but turned this color and texture in the end. Except it wasn’t moving, of course. The owners didn’t want to keep watering a wall so they took the moss down. Of course, they never had any houseplants to start with.”

“You and your green ideas,” Dad said, reaching out to swat at a foot-wide ant column snaking up the near wall. The kitchen table wobbled when he shifted his weight. It was a good old solid oak table that seated twelve. They’d be fine on it, Mom had said, piling up canned goods and pillows on one end. A little tight for all of them, of course, but cozy.