What was that mosquito thinking as the six needles of its proboscis mouth bit into my mother’s skin? Had it taken a long, unplanned journey in a bag as a tourist traveled north from a tropical Caribbean island? Or was it an old-time New York mosquito that had feasted the night before on the sweaty skin of a feverish traveler from the south?
My mother would remain incredulous at her bad luck: Why did this mosquito choose her arm to snack upon? She is nearly 90 years old woman and has lived a quiet life that involves walking her curly-haired Jack Russell, Millie, to and from Central Park.