I am eight years old with my belly and limbs against

fragrant, fresh-cut grass.

Grubby fingers push more of Momma’s turkey on rye into my mouth

as I observe a sandy anthill.

Ant soldiers the size of my fingernail march up and out, left right left,

to the rhythm of my jaw.

Crumbs collect and fall at the corners of my mouth, shaken loose

by bare toes beating the earth.

Plump black ants amble towards me, a cluster of thick thoraxes,

and I smile around my sandwich.

I’m sure they want to make friends,

maybe they’ll come inside with me.

Tiny scavengers amble across my knuckles on their odyssey

to the breadcrumbs building up beneath me.

I stare as they lift and heave and walk away

back to their miniature mountain.

Each ant carries a crumb, each ant lends a hand,

no one left behind.

I glimpse a baby scrambling to catch up with the others

and find myself proud of his contribution.

Momma’s voice materializes in my head, reminding me that

everyone is fundamental.

That everyone has worth in the world;

I hope this tiny ant knows.

That night, Momma listens to me babble about my ant friends,

declares them nature’s little wonders.

They can lift over twice their weight, Momma says,

and my eyes go wide in admiration.

I tell her I want to be that strong one day; she grins,

and so you will, she says.