I found a moth today in my bed. In the dim light seeping through the blinds, I first mistook it for a stain. It was in the exact middle of the bed, the mattress still warm and indented from my body. I touched the furry edge; it was the moth that had been fluttering against the ceiling for the past few days. I had planned on capturing it and letting it outside if it flew low enough. It never did. How long had the moth been in my bed? Did it snuggle up against me during the night, cold and attracted by my furry blankets and fluffy pillows? Did it fall from the ceiling as I sat up in bed?
I cupped my hand over it, to carry it outside and let it free. It didn’t move. Its wings bent under the weight of my hand. I suppose it had starved. Had it died beside me in the night? Had it crawled to my side, too weak to fear, submitting too late to the power that could free it? Had it chose to spend its last moments in the shadow of a giant?
I scooped it up, the furry head tucked gently against my palm. It was unexpectedly heavy, like a marble. I dumped the little body from my perch on the bunk bed into the trashcan at the foot of my bed. I could hear a whole second pass in the silence before the morning begins. It’s body thumped into the trashcan. Small, furry, easily forgotten. It’s life was reduced to a single, soft sound.
Goodbye.
