The Moth

Something was in the hammock swing but I couldn’t see what.

I heard Olive squeal with delight but could not imagine what could be causing such excitement.

“Stop” she whispered. “Stand back.”

Whatever it was, it was half the size of the palm of her hand and before I could see what it was and say “don’t touch it”, as Grandmothers are prone to do, she was sitting on the grass with “it” in her hands, staring at its beautiful wings and hoping it wouldn’t fly away . . . yet.

I had to admit it was a very beautiful moth. As pretty as any butterfly.

With one finger, she gently stroked the moth’s wings. It sat perfectly still in her hands. It crawled around. It fluttered. Finally it flew into the air and across the garden. It was gone and she longingly said . . . .”oh, come back”.

Olive is just like her mother.

She loves everything in the world.

She touches, squeezes, cleans off, squishes, pushes along, fits into, changes around, comforts and carries around anything that crawls, scoots or flies. She talks to the strangest things and puts out her hands. They often calm down, come a little closer and talk to her.

That is what she tells me and who am I to say that they don’t ?


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