A tiny fly just walked across my table to a teeny fallen flower bud. As he approached it, I marveled at how similar the two looked. Same size, dark and compact. One animated, the other contracted and lifeless.
Then I marveled again when the fly lifted a wee arm to shake the bud awake. It did not wake. So he climbed up onto it as if crawling into bed with a loved one upon realizing they had passed.
I don’t know what the fly was thinking. Did he mistake it for one of his own? Was he a floral enthusiast trying to breathe life back into a discarded and desiccated part of a flower he loved so? Does he have a tough time letting things go in his personal life?
I guess I’ll never know — he flew off before I could ask him. But next time I see him, I’ll apologize for rudely gawking during such a private moment, and I’ll invite him to tea.
“I can forget my manners when I spend a lot of time by myself,” I’ll admit.
“Why are you by yourself so much?” He’ll ask, a hint of concern in his voice.
And I’ll tell him the whole story — except I’ll skip over the really heavy parts, not wanting to burden or bore him with the details. He’ll listen, nodding in an empathetic way, grasping everything left unsaid as much as the words spoken. And when I finish, he’ll rest his little arm on one of my fingers as if to say, “It’s OK. I understand.”
And then he’ll motion for me to bring him closer to my face, and he’ll take a miniature framed picture from his back pocket (I didn’t realize flies even had front pockets!), and he’ll hold it up. And I’ll squint my hardest to bring it into focus, and he’ll realize my eyes aren’t so good, even when I have my contacts in, so he’ll explain what I’m looking at.
“It’s my wife and son.” He’ll hesitate for a moment, eyes fixed on the photo. “I’m away from home a lot — for work,” he’ll continue. “It can get lonely,” he’ll say, faintly smiling. And this time, I’ll nod my head in understanding.
“But I know I’m never really alone because they’re always with me, even when they’re not,” he’ll say, pointing to his teeny tiny heart. “Ya know, the ones we love always are.” Then he’ll put away the picture and wipe a tiny tear from his tiny eye.
And then I’ll wipe a tear from mine, and we’ll both pause, appreciating that suspended time before a departure when you realize this moment, like all the others before it, can’t last.
“Ah, well,” he’ll say, taking a deep breath. “I must be going.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” I’ll say. “I’m really glad I met you.”
“Yeah,” he’ll say. “Same here. Thanks for the tea.”
“Sure,” I’ll say. “Any time.”
“Goodbye,” he’ll say finally.
“For now,” I’ll correct him. And we’ll exchange one last knowing look before he lifts off and shrinks from my vision into just another pixel in the foreground.
P.S.sst…
I handed off my book for the third (and final!) round of edits and am in the process of designing the book cover (a sneak peek on that next week!). Meaning, I’m on track for a September launch.
Credits
Art by my talented (not-so-)little brother, Thomas. (He’s one of the most humble humans I know, so this is probably going to embarrass the hell out of him — I’m sorry, Tommy, but I hella love ya.)
I want to turn this little story into a children’s book, and asked Thomas if he would illustrate it. He said he didn’t think he could do it justice. Despite my disagreement and attempt at a big sister pep talk, I respected his decision and let it go. Then he surprised me with a letter and this little (as in 3x4 inches) consolation.
Music is A Little Lost by Group Listening Listen on Spotify or YouTube.
