by Marie Davis and Margaret Hultz.
Most people do not expect a tick to find God at a flea market. But, that is exactly where Harold first recognized God — in the smile between two ladybugs. Not the insects, but the ladybugs that are rouged onto old women’s cheeks — the round, rosy kind of cheeks dotted with age spots.
Clattery flea market commotion rumbled from bargaining stall to bargaining stall. Dusty clutter, dusty jumble that was Harold’s competition. Yawning, he tried to appear bored, not desperate. But, as usual, those rummaging were not in the market for a tick. This day was like all others; Harold sat perpetually lonely while others found value in junk. Barring the occasional surprise, everyday was like everyday. Nearly nodding off to sleep, the tick was shaken by the ogle of an antique woman. Bent in half, she leaned toward Harold, their noses nearly nuzzling. The little tick’s face contorted with curiosity.
Squinting her eyes to see his tiny expression better, the old woman chuckled, “Confused? Lola! Look, it’s a confused arachnid.”
A raven-eyed enchantress bent down, and in a celestial voice whispered, “Well… look at that … what a darling little creature you are!”
“I’m just a tick.” Harold flatly replied.
“A tick indeed…a perfect little tick.” Lola and her friend said in unison.
“Perfect? Ha! Not me.”
The old woman grunted. “Of course you are.”
Lola piped up, “Let’s see the definition of a tick? Well…they are in the arachnid family – along with spiders and such. ”
“Yes.” The old woman nodded.
“Ticks hatch from eggs. Why, you could have ten thousand siblings! Ten Thousand! Do you happen to know all their names?
Perplexed, Harold slowly shook his head from side to side.
“Well…little one, you do know you’re quite a bit on the parasitic side.”
Harold’s eyeballs bugged!
The old woman spoke up to soothe the sting. “Pshaw! You’re definitely not alone with that! Everyone’s a bit parasitic time to time!”
Harold relaxed — a bit.
Lola continued, “Well, they do leave their host when sated.”
“Most everyone — some are real hanger-on-ers,” the old woman grunted.
Harold slowly shook his head from side to side once again.
The old woman’s voice dropped, “Don’t fret little bugger — most everyone else is in denial about it, too.”
Emphatically, Harold shook his tiny head, “NO!”
The enchantress smiled, “No troubles here obviously. Looks like you perfectly fit the definition of a tick. What’s your name — perfect tick?”
“Um, I-I’m Harold.”
“Okay, our little Harold, don’t you see? You are perfect; it is your definition of perfect that is imperfect.” Harold watched as the old woman’s lips slowly parted, and a single breath escaped. A generous gift since she was an antique, and had so few breaths left. Thin lips spread across her jawline in such a practiced movement, it looked effortless. Hot pink lipstick framed a large mouthful of yellow-tinged teeth. Interestingly enough, her right front tooth was also wearing the exact same shade of lipstick. Fleshy gums clung to worn teeth. Her fat red tongue flexed and her ladybug-cheeks puckered, “HA…HA…HA…HA…”
It was a boisterous, sincere laugh and the ease at which she let it out made market goers turn and gawk. Gracefully, her deep wrinkles made way to bend the face just so her laughs were made even easier. That’s what wrinkles do; they fix the face so that our most common expressions get easier as folks age. Smile wrinkles light up a face and frowning wrinkles drag it down. It’s not the wrinkle’s fault; they are just being helpful and following directions.
“HA…HA…HA…HA…HA!” The old woman laughed louder. An inquisition of heads scowled. She smiled. Disapproval retreated. This generous smile not only tickled her ladybug-cheeks, but tickled this particular tick too. The smile warmed Harold and coated a vacancy he had felt inside for far too long. And it was at that very second, when Harold found God. It was an epiphany. Not the woman… not the ladybugs… not the smile itself — but the very act of giving a needed smile — was God.
Seeing the tick’s flabbergasted face, Lola explained, “God is mostly a verb.” Then she plucked him off a worn wool rug, marred with dog pee stains. Oh ecstasy! Harold was chosen junk after all!