When a scorpion dies its body straightens. It looks really weird. Scorpion architecture has a natural curl. It’s part of the threat. The coiled spring that will drive a stinger into you should you risk contact. After the creatures dies and uncoils you can see that its tail is longer than its body. You can see how fast a body dries out and reduces once the spirit is gone.
When it’s alive you want to kill it. When it’s dead you remember how it struggled to stay alive. “Like me,” (I often think). I see them scurrying across my livingroom floor or swimming in my shower. One brazenly crossed the sidewalk in front of me the other day. It was all of two inches long and wide, a Rod Serling episode of giants and little people flashed into my mind as it swaggered past. I was walking the dogs. We waited until it reached cover. Why not?
One died in my bathroom hamper last summer. When I pulled a towel out, it dropped off and hit the tile. That was six months ago. I’ve been afraid to pick it up. What if it comes back to life when I pick it up? I swear that’s what runs through my mind; a thought pursued by the next one telling me I am being stupid. The conflict continues as I turn away from the carcass that now lays like a sigil on my bathroom floor. I look at it every time I get out of the shower. It’s part of my bathroom ritual. Wash, soap, rinse. Grab the towel, step out onto the mat and stare at the scorpion corpse while I dry out and think, “Nope, it’s bad juju to pick it up. It might come back to life….idiot.”
Then I lotion up and head downstairs into the icebox that is my downstairs.
Have a non-sequitur Merry Christmas
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