The Last Mutterings of a Meager Moth in Passing

The Last Mutterings of a Meager Moth in Passing

Stepping out past the backdoor of his home, and out onto the wooden planks of his porch, the man caught sight of the meagerest mite of a moth turned up upon its back atop one of the long, thick slats of its flooring — fluttering its tarnished and torn wings and pedaling its many legs upwards in the warming breezes of the early spring air.

Leaning close to its tiny frame, he gently asked of the meager moth how it had come to lay in such a place in such an obvious state of complaint.

“Oh, hello kind sir, I didn’t notice you there at first,” it muttered meekly, “my senses being not worth a nit these last few hours. Oh, well,” the meager moth lightly chuckled, musing ruefully to itself.

“Well,” it finally said after a time in answer to the man’s question, “I suppose it must have been when I began to feel so terribly tired that I thought it best to rest my weary wings for a spell, only to feel a great lassitude steal upon me once I had landed — the will of which has rendered my form in the current condition under which you find me,” the meager moth explained at length, sighing heavier yet with each successive syllable it said.

“But if you are taking your rest, why do you shiver and shudder your fine wings and graceful legs distressingly so?” The man asked urgently, fearful as he was of the frenzied fits he saw in the small frame of the meager moth.

The meager moth took a while to respond as its will seemed to ebb down a further decline. “I am not sure I can say,” the meager moth finally replied, haltingly. “I just found myself growing ever more restless in my growing fatigue,” the meager moth said — the final words all but murmurs to the man’s ears.

“Is there not but anything I can do to offset the diss ease of your unrest?” The man asked, hungry for something to do to relieve the sufferings of the meager moth.

“No, no, just leave me to my rest. I feel the flames of my spirit being called upwards to that great candlelight in the sky, feeling as I do as light as a single one of my scales…It won’t be long now.” The meager moth’s words now but the merest of whispers — the man knelt down low to hear them said. 

“Come now, when I look at your lovely wings, the graceful curlicue of your antennae, and the elegance of your form, I see not but the spring of youth glowing about your person,” the man said kindly, trying to shore up the meager moth’s will with a bit of well-meaning flattery.

Despite itself, the flame of the meager moth’s will surfaced for but a moment with a light chuckle and blush — the vanity of life briefly suffusing its form. “While your fulsome praise does shower my pride with a bit of warmth, even the untrained eye of the blind could see that the scales of my youth have long past fallen,” her wavering voice warmly smiled before quickly quieting once more.

It was some moments before the meager moth could summon the strength to speak again.

“You’ll have to forgive me kind sir, but I feel my long-awaited rest coming upon me,” it struggled to get out.

The man, seeing the sad and piteous state of the meager moth could do nothing but watch the scales slip slowly from its eyes.

“Forgive me for disturbing your rest this last time, but to do honor by your life, might there be some family relations through which I could pass on your final words?” the man humbly beseeched.

“Family?”, she asked, her meager frame once more suffused with the warm glow of life.

“Yes, did you have one?” the man asked kindly. 

“Oh, yes,” she replied brightly, “many an hour did I fondly spend tending to the fine and handsome brood of my family — instructing them as I did so in the proper ways and doings of life,” she said, the flames of joy exuded from her meager person in the warmth of her words.

“Did you have many little mother?” the man inquired curiously, with admiration filling his words.

“As many as my meager frame could muster,” the meager moth said proudly as she fanned out wide the fine topiary of her wings as if to enfold all of their invisible forms.

The man could do not but stare in quiet wonder at the good little life this meager mite of a moth had lived as the flame of life continued to leave her frame. But, being fearful of not being able to relay her last words before she passed, urged her on one last time to tell him the words of her soul — so he could pass them on to those who needed to know.

“Oh, my child,” she said with the most heart-rending tenderness, “they all already know by heart what those words would be. But you, for you they might be new.”

“Remember this then, my child, it is not the heights to which we rise in our lonely quest for that great candlelight in the sky, that matters, but the warmth for a time we but borrow from it, to share its blessings with the one’s for whom we care…Remember this my child…” And so saying, the shallow flutterings of the meager moth’s fine wings suddenly ceased before quickly descending into place — wrapping her up in the burial shroud of their soft folds as they neatly entombed her tiny breast.

“Yes,” the man said faithfully and solemnly, with the brimmings of tears rimming his words, “I will remember your words little mother.” Gently scooting her tiny fragile form into the palm of his hand, the man walked out to the garden, knelt down, and scooping off a tiny bit of soil from atop the earth, tenderly laid the still figure of the meager moth down in her meager grave. 

Pushing the pile of upturned dirt gently over the frozen form of the meager moth, the man said a somber prayer, stood up and gently brushed away the clay from his pants, and, bent low by his lonely musings, walked forth with the heaviest of tread while muttering to himself once more, “Yes, I will remember your words little mother.” before quietly adding, “and I will always remember you.”