When I was in grammar school, one of my classmates lived a little out of town on a lot of land. There was a creek, and trails, and a lot of cool, lush grass that practically insisted you lie down in it and look at the sky. It was a good field trip destination for my class, and we did just that a few times.
One of our activities was catching critters in the creek. I never had any trouble doing this on my own or with neighborhood friends, but for some reason I was monumentally bad at it with my schoolmates. Kids would show off their tadpoles, crawdads, and lizards, and I never had anything with which to participate. And I felt so defeated going home with nothing.
So I caught a huge ant and took that home in my Tupperware. I named her Henry. (Seems like I should have known Henry was a worker and therefore female, but apparently I didn’t.)
My mother tried to help me with Henry’s care. We sugar-watered her a time or two. Despite this clearly expert-level guardianship that would make any myrmecologist proud, Henry’s time with me was short. I think she lived three days.
I’m sure Mom would remember my crying and wailing when my ant died, because I really did lay it on thick. But I didn’t actually care about the ant dying. It was just the occasion I used to vent my frustration at sucking so badly at catching critters in the creek with my schoolmates.
Sometimes, when I’m having a hard time running anger or sadness to ground, I remember Henry.
(Because sometimes it’s not about what it’s about.)