I let a moth go. I noticed it last night, fluttering around the light over the oven, dancing and flitting above the little billows of steam as I boiled spaghetti.
When I was a little kid, with baby-soft skin and invincible curiosity, I concluded that the large brown moth was the gentlest creature on earth, perfectly benign, soft, and--as far as a little boy could tell--kind. She never bit or stung, and she never seemed afraid of me. But I learned that she was terribly vulnerable, sometimes tragically so; the moth's tiny soul is often incompatible with human bone and muscle. Sometimes even a child's gentle touch can be too much. But her delicate steps across my little hand always felt like love.
I have a friend whose ex-wife was near death two days ago. She may already be dead as I write this. My friend has loved his ex-wife dearly since they were married thirty-five years ago, and all through the twenty years they raised their only son together his love for her grew, but her love for him did not. Or maybe her love for him did grow, and maybe she felt more vulnerable than she could bear. My friend's ex-wife hasn't let him near her in years.
And now she is vulnerable again. They told her after she was admitted to the hospital last week that she would not be going home. She still will not let my friend see her.
I saw the moth when I went to bed last night. It startled me, but it was asleep--if that is what moths do. It was dormant, and clinging to the tile in the corner of the kitchen. The decorations on its wings looked like two tiny brown eyes, watching me. I thought, I may never see it again. It may die, and dry up, and next time I clean--three months from now--it may be swept away, unnoticed.
But she greeted me this morning, fluttering in the light as I retrieved the whistling teapot. I reached; she landed on my hand. But she would not be held. I caught her between my hand and a giant plastic cup, and as she bounced around trying to find the space between my fingers, I dashed to the bathroom window. I raised the blinds with one hand, and tried to raise the sash without losing her. But I dropped the cup and she landed on the window sill. I raised the sash and the two storm windows as quickly as I could while she fluttered--either joyful, or terrified--in the warm sunlight. She stayed with me for a moment, flitting and fluttering as we felt the warmer-than-usual September air come in through the window. I think she was happy. She flew around the edge of the window opening and, gently, she was gone.
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