Flash: Moths

This morning,
the moths,
the same ones I told you about,
the ones who had been visiting the last few days
landed on my desk.

And then they died.

I didn’t see it happen.
They were just there.
Still.
Like they had finished something.

It seems to have happened right
after I spoke with your great-great aunt.

We almost never talk.
But today, we did.
Almost two hours.
Stories your grandmother refuses to explore and tell.
A friend had encouraged me a few weeks ago:
pull at the threads.

So I have.
And it’s strange,
but I wondered—I really did
if the moths were 'aumākua.

Spirits.
Family, returning to check in.

My father,
maybe?
My sister?

Sometimes our ancestors
come back as animals,
birds,
moths.

They don’t say anything.
They just come.
And then they go.

After the call,
I felt a strange relief.

Like someone had been holding their breath
on my behalf,
and had finally exhaled.
I picked the moths up
gently
and I buried them beneath a small stone
in the planter box on the lanai
where I usually sit.

That spot where the wind moves through the leaves
just enough to remind you
that you're not alone.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this,
except that maybe one day
you’ll feel a presence you can’t explain,
and I want you to know:
It’s possible
it’s them or maybe it’s me.

And it’s okay to stop.
To notice.
To thank them
before they go.