By Susan Ford Collins
Every morning for five years now on walks with my dogs, Mica and Mango, I pass a certain house about a block away and a certain very tall pine tree knowing that, at about eye level, a glistening green fly will be fluttering steadily mid air. And each day he is or she is or their progeny are... predictably. It’s something I’ve come to know and expect and I veer a little to the right or to the left to pass him or her, honoring.
But, as John and I walk today and we approach that exact spot, he begins complaining about that green fly always being there, even buzzing in his ear a day or so before, and I reply: That green fly is holding that exact spot in the universe steadily and if he were knocked off, if he no longer held it, then perhaps the whole universe would implode, caving in and causing everything else around it to cave in too, changing everything and everyone in world order.