I like to compare notes with him, to count the shades of blue on a kingfisherâ€™s back . . . â€”Robert Cording
â€śCome see this creature before I cut it loose,â€ť my husband calls to me from the garage, something large and winged thrashing on a spiderâ€™s thread dangling down from the opened garage doorâ€” no holy ghost but a moth, caught there by a wing until he lifts the silk rigging down with a broom. The flailing insect twirls like an acrobat till he lays it, freed, in the grass. Tired, it doesnâ€™t move. We admire and leave it, go about the business of our days. May it recover . . . may it not become prey for the neighborâ€™s cat . . . Later, when I remember to look again, itâ€™s flown. (Like your souls, I want to take up the old healing grief metaphor, speaking to my lost father, my mother, my nephew, my grandmother . . . Flown like your souls, to some heaven we canâ€™tâ€” or canâ€”imagine, or map . . .) That night, having lost our chance if not the means to identify it surely, we puzzle over the moth book, pointing: this? Or this? Or this?â€”(some type of sphinx)â€”joined in spirit as in body in our human need to capture and release meaning, feel the touch of beloved skin: and keep safe all the facts and fancies of our world, with their attendant terrors and grace, the mystery of the present moment and the escaping future, heart to hand.