Wasp Sting, Static Nightgown, and Untouched Pizza
A memoir of a high-sensory childhood
In my father’s house, a wasp sting became a silent scream woven into the uncomfortable fabric of my childhood. Clad in a cheap winter fleece nightgown, a bargain basement find that scratched my skin and just caused static, I found myself exposed to both physical and emotional discomfort.
The wasp’s sting chose an unconventional moment, steering clear of the typical summer days spent frolicking barefoot in tall grass. It also avoided the heightened frenzy of September when wasps and bees were known to be particularly manic, desperate for their last stings before winter claimed them. Instead, it happened in late fall, adding an extra jolt to the already charged atmosphere.
The pain failed to register immediately as the wasp’s venom surged through me. I mistook the sensation for an extra shock of the static electricity — as the wasp’s sting remained a silent intruder. It wasn’t until the pain took on a different feeling that I hastily discarded the nightgown atop my sleeping bag. That’s when I glimpsed the unsightly beast, engaged in its death crawl.
At that moment, there was no instinct to call out. My father would’ve been downstairs watching TV, feet up. I did not call out to a father who was not there. I just dealt with the…
