They got me. I knew they would but I didn’t want to pay attention to the warnings. I wanted to believe green meant go. I wanted the large, luscious leaves to be a sign of solidarity: me and them. I wanted the squash bugs out of our lives so my plants could go on living blissfully, healthily, as squash producing symbols of fertility. Just like when we met, their gorgeous new leaves pushing the dirt aside to breathe new life into the world.

Sure I found the eggs all over the place. I squished ‘em, I sprayed ‘em, I picked the bugs off and stomped them into the ground. I sprayed some more, pulled out the neem, the cayenne, the citrus oil and the castille soap. They are fighters, I’ll tell you what. You get one sad little squash plant and it screams out in pain, calling in all the diseases and bugs it can to put it out of its miserable and waning life. It commands a cease-fire of chlorophyll and seems to fear the repurcussions of sun bathing.

So I did it. I ripped out 3 little, wilting, hollow stemmed squash plants. I picked the little baby squashes off them as I wearily eyed the tender blossoms quickly fading in the grass by the bed. The squash themselves were hollow and spongy. If I had tried one, I’m sure they would’ve been tasteless, malnourished little fellas, nothing like their healthy counterparts: firm, crisp, sweet and plump. Almost buttery. Delicious raw, heaven fried.

I have one squash plant left. A heavy bloomer with stems wider than the points of my fingers when I squeeze all the tips together. No visible holes. No little nasty red eggs. And you better believe I’m looking at every part of that plant. Out of 6 plants, I have one left. One last bastion of hope to taste. One saviour guiding me towards the summer delicacy of home-grown squash casserole.

Pay heed you nasty little grey bugs. If I see even one of you near my baby, you better pray for your soul.