Sunday, April 24, 2016

Luck and Ladybugs.

Every spring it happens. What seems like hundreds of ladybugs emerge from some crack or crevice in my house. For a week or so they gather near windows so I open screens and doors to shoo them out. Sometimes I take a small piece of cardboard, usually a business card or an advertisement and scoop them up gently, plopping them into a little cup. I make my rounds and then go outside and shake them free. Sometimes they fly away, sometimes the just fall to the ground. Sometimes their movements are slow, their wing-covers a dry brown. Other-times they're quick and bright and I struggle to understand how they survived the winter tucked away in our house.

I also find some dead. Dried-out on window sills and along the floor. Sometimes I see them huddled in corners of the ceiling where I can't reach them. I can't help them there. We don't speak the same language so there's no use in calling out to them.

The other day was a bad day. I wasn't entirely myself. I was a half-person. Despondent and exhausted. And instead of collecting these ladybugs and setting them free, I removed them from my space through the rumble and suction of my vacuum cleaner.

For three of them, that's how they left this house. On any other day, they would have left differently.

But on that day, luck was not with them.

Yesterday I did some cleaning, and throughout the day I pushed these little ladybugs into a cup, or into my hand where I would lightly close my fist, keeping them from flying away  I would make my way outside and open my hand, shaking it over the garden.

And today, I do the same.

But that one day, I did not. That one day, they were unlucky.

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