I know that I was battling praying mantises last fall, but I sort of forgot that warmer weather would bring back herds of bugs, fluttering and creeping and dying in my shared living space. These aren't creatures of squalor, just part of living in the woods - the sort of thing I should expect of a house built smack dab in the middle of Outside. It still surprises me, though, when I pull back the shower curtain to reveal a grasshopper or when a june bug has gone gently into that good night on the kitchen counter next to my crate of oranges.
It's the week preceding my birthday. This invites the kind of self-absorbed reflection on Time and its Passage that requires creaking on the porch swing late at night, staring at the love-drunk moths bobbing and diving at the incandescent bulbs. And for once, I'm not drawing sadsack parallels about flinging myself at the same light over and over and wondering why nothing ever changes. No, instead I'm hoping my bedroom window are shut upstairs so that I don't find any (more) insect carcasses in my sheets.
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