The Old Moth - A Eulogy

An old and tired moth grasps at an old and tired hemp rope that stretches horizontal as a clothesline. He is hidden in a corner, slowly making his way across. His turmeric and red sienna wings are stiff. They look like impossibly thin and symmetrical shards of sandstone. Only one wing is frayed, just slightly at one end, impressive for a relic like him. The other wings have remained defiant and feign a youthfulness in appearance if not in function. He could almost be a young moth, one fresh from the cocoon, if it wasn’t for how tired he feels.

Beleaguered, he inches his way across the line. The sun is just starting to lighten the morning sky, turning it a cool blue. He remembers when he first emerged from the cocoon and looked up at the sky: to start life as a crawling creature, toiling on the earth, and then to fall into that deep sleep, awakening to discover that he has wings. He remembers the first flutter; he remembers it as one remembers first falling in love. He barely moved his wings and suddenly his feet left the ground. He was enervated by that fortune of his. The world became entirely new, where the air could be traversed and the ground forgotten. (Yes, it is like love, isn’t it?) He could dive and spin and soar. He could fly. He, who once inched along the ground, could fly.

He was handsome then too. His spread wings were so large that they would cast shadows. In the sun, they gleamed. He was arrogant, he admits. But even the butterflies stopped and stared. Especially the butterflies.

Now he wonders if there is another metamorphosis near. He is so tired and this point in his life doesn’t seem so different from when he was a caterpillar, there, encasing himself in his cocoon. If he fell asleep now, it would be much the same. But what could be greater than awakening to discover that you have wings? He has been too blessed, he thinks.

It’s hard for the old moth to keep moving down the line. His wings have stopped working and now he must walk, inching along. With useless wings, he is a caterpillar again, he thinks. A damn handsome caterpillar. He has no instinct this time to build a cocoon. Even if he did, he has no energy for it. He can barely hang onto the rope.

The sun is rising over the peaks in the distance. He watches through his old eyes. The light settles on him and warms him. His wings are resplendent in the light. As the sun lifts and the bottom of the orb disengages from the earth he feels that moment again when he first used his wings, rising up and up into that beautiful, fresh sky. The sun moves uninhibited and eternal. Up. The moth is tired but he is so happy, happy to be watching that sun. If only he could beat his wings once more and rise with the sun.

He closes his eyes, as he must do. He is in the middle of the clothesline now, basking in the bright light. As he expected, he hears the air rush and feels the clothesline bounce. He crawled to the center of the line for this. He isn’t afraid. He knows that this is the metamorphosis. The line bounces again and he hears the wings beat. Massive wings. What powerful wings. He knows that now he will become the strength in those wings. He will fly again.

The old moth is raised up and in his last breath he opens his eyes and sees that he is in the air once again. He is rising with the sun, up and up and up. And he thanks her as he is carried off.

His wings fall back to the earth, the place where his life began, when he could still only dream of flying.