matchbook

he darkling beetle was wingless and nocturnal. Well-adjusted to drought. Trickster insect, lured and balmed by grain. It had adapted to the climate’s changing textures. Aridity did nothing to deter it, not even in our most coveted deserts. Because my grandmother had at one point stored our death records with the oatmeal, barreled up in bulk by the snake cholla out back—an apocalyptic hiding place she was certain would never suffer a breach—the family paperwork was overrun with larvae for three years straight. Darkling beetles fucked among our decedents en masse, laying hundreds of eggs, then promptly dying their own jubilant deaths. Mealworms multiplied at an alarming rate. They burrowed through immunization records and scandalous letters predicting pregnancy, freak tropical storms, declining sex drives and religious guilt. Disease, exile, immigration resized to postcard dimensions. Finally my grandmother capitulated to our demands. With reluctance, she relocated her rubber band-bound stash to a safe inside. That summer, the cousins and I sifted for hours, up to our elbows in grain. Once we’d removed all manner of vermin, tiny and wriggling still, my grandmother cooked us up our very own rejuvenating gel. Grind, soak, boil. Add apple pulp for a sweeter scent profile. Allow to thicken overnight. Eventually a brown foam and beneath it a gelatin-like base. Spoon and strain. She claimed it had nourishing properties, pulled her gnarled fingers through our hair until we looked oil-slick. For months afterwards, we shone, no matter how hard we scrubbed. Everything has its uses, she told us. Even and especially the babies.