Stages

I didn’t see the moth at first. It is small. It matches the color of our roof shingles above me: dark and dreary and gray.

I have never liked moths. I don't despise them, to be fair; they’re just, simply, irritating. Flapping and buzzing around, occasionally diving toward one’s head, inducing screams and gasps of horror. They’re a nuisance to the world. And I have never enjoyed their presence.

So, I certainly do not appreciate this particular moth as I sit near the porch fire, warming my hands inches from the blue flames. I jerk backward slightly, scowling. It seems to appear from nowhere, straight from the darkness and above the fire, flittering about with that slow, low buzz, disturbing the once gentle silence of the night. It even manages to obscure the stars.

My scowl grows deeper. I glare at the beast.

I reach out, trying to swat the moth away; it dodges my hand easily, jerking upwards to avoid the painful blow before easing back down again, flying around and around in relentless circles about a foot above the flames. I bring my hand back from the cold of the night air and into the heat, pulling my blanket tighter around me with my other hand. It’s as if the moth is purposefully attempting to infuriate me, mocking me with its loud fluttering and hideous figure. I’m sure of it. Only a moth could manage to ruin this simple, peaceful night. The first night in a long while spent far, far away from my responsibilities.

I’m about to rise so that I can grab a cup or container from inside the house to trap the annoying insect when, suddenly, it dives.

The moth dives straight into the blaze.

I freeze.

The blue frames enwrap the small creature in hungry tendrils, setting it ablaze. At first, the moth stumbles across the coals, writhing and jerking. Its body glows with blue light, its legs twitching grotesquely. The buzz is gone. Instead, it’s been replaced by a disturbing sizzle, and I feel a sharp pang in my chest, wondering where the once pleasant sound has disappeared, if it has been replaced by an excruciating scream my ears cannot hear…

My heart thuds. I feel my fingers itching to move forward, to grasp this small entity by the tip of its wing and bring it to the safety of the cool night air. To save this small, sweet soul. I look around wildly, at anything to help in my endeavor––where was that cup or container I so desperately sought before? Perhaps I can simply stick my hand into the fire, fast, like a lightning strike. I move my hand close but wrench it back as the heat already overcomes me.

The moth can still be saved… can’t it? It cannot be too late… can it?

And then, a flash of anger. Why am I the person who must sit and watch this suffering––this torture––powerless, with nothing to help me save this poor spirit? What did I ever do to the insect, to the world? The anger is quickly replaced by guilt, as I think back to every encounter I ever had with generations of this insect burning before me. Years of trying to push it away… years of annoyance and irritation and dislike… constantly pushing it away, away from my body, from my existence…

Why did it dive into the fire? Why did it seem to hurtle itself into death, with no hesitation, with no fear? How was it not paralyzed with terror at the prospect of its impending doom? Why did it seek to end its days in the dark by entering this warmth, this light?

Perhaps I deserve to watch this. I deserve to watch the creature’s life wither away into nothingness. It will soon be gone from this world, and all that will remain is this small second of memory left with me, the keeper of the moth’s existence. The keeper of the moth’s end. Perhaps I should take its place. I deserve to, anyways. My hand itches to reach into the flames again, but not for the same reason as before; not to come back out of the warmth, but to forever remain in it…

I jolt, yanking my hand back to the blanket.

No. I cannot. It is pointless.

I cannot save it. I cannot save it. I cannot save it.

The words hit me, each time a heavier and more agonizing blow. I stifle a sob, reaching my hand and covering my mouth. I feel tears drip. They’re warm, like the fire in front of me. The fire consuming the small life force that I so easily took for granted. Wave upon wave of sorrow hits, again and again, never ending; an unabated beating of misery.

I cannot look away. The moth twists and thrashes and squirms within the inferno. To avoid its descent into death would be to ignore its pain. And I cannot ignore it. The pain is right in front of me, inviting me in. I am a part of it now.

I cannot reach in; the moth is already in pain, already dying. It chose this path.

I cannot leave, either; this moth doesn’t deserve to die alone, scared and small in a world that was always too big for it. This moth deserves company. A friend. I can be there for it––a companion in the darkness. I will stay with this moth until it is gone to a world I cannot see.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the moth grows very still. I watch as, one by one, the flailing legs stiffen. And then, as the fire continues to feast on the small spirit, the legs disappear in smoke and ash. Then, the body dissipates. Finally, the head. Its eyes––eyes that, at first, seemed so small––are big and black and they, too, fade along with the creature, until all that remains is the fire, still burning in the gentle silence of the night.