They turn up dead
More often than not—
Ladybugs.
Caught between windowpane and dented screen.
Lost atop the tallest shelf
in forgotten dust.
Swept beneath the cabinet chasm
on the far side of the room.
The thing is upside down, too still, faded—
But still
Red. Black spots. Clinging to what makes a ladybug
itself.
It was alive once.
There is no evidence my grandmother liked ladybugs. But we spotted one crawling on the window in the room where she died.
When she died.
It was alive still.
A fragile thing upon which we hefted our mourning and memory.
Now, it is the duty of all ladybugs to carry that burden.
“Camy,” my girls gleefully giggle whenever they spot one:
Red. Black spots. My grandmother.
Vibrant, faded, still, alive.
It is the burden of all ladybugs to carry
her memory
for us.
Thanks for reading! I don’t typically write poetry, but as I mentioned a few weeks back, I’m in a class on Catholic storytelling and we’re trying out new forms. Let me know what you think.
And another thing: If you need your weekly dose of Ignatian spirituality, check out this week’s installment of “Now Discern This” over at Jesuits.org.
Oh, this was beautiful. Thank you for sharing.