Moth on a Stick
Almost every summer I go to visit my grandfather’s grave. His ashes lie in a small temple atop a mountain, along with those of several of my other relatives, most of whom died before I was born. Most of whom I have no inkling of knowledge about their lives, or what type of person they were, or how exactly they were even related to me. They simply are, an invisible force in my life, in the world that somehow allowed my creation. Usually this force is silent. But on some days it pushes at me, reminding me. Honor us, they say, though I do not know them. Excel so that you may be remembered, and we will be remembered through you.
The last time I paid the ashes a visit, a black and white moth strained at the windows, struggling to get out, unable to see that an open door was right beside it. I watched it for a moment, fascinated. Its wings, though seemingly nondescript from their colour, were upon closer inspection beautifully intricate. Gently I tried to touch it, and guide it towards the open door. Yet at the lightest brush of my fingers the moth struggled frenziedly against the glass, before sinking exhausted to the sill. Finally I persuaded it to cling onto an incense stick, and I lifted it away from the window.
I brought the moth to the door. It had been raining outside while I was observing it. But now the rain had stopped for a moment and small flecks of sunlight peeked through the clouds. The moth, though, perched on the end of a flimsy green stick, would not let go, though the freedom it had sought for so long was now offered to it. I shook the stick, and finally, reluctantly, it flew out, gliding to a nearby platform where it settled to rest.
I rejoined the rest of my family to honor the ancestors I had never known or met. My mother scolded me. “Perhaps that moth was your grandfather’s spirit, coming back to join us. You did not need to force it to go outside.” I disagreed, but said nothing.
